HIS  FAMILY 


BY 
ERNEST  POOLE 

AUTHOR  OP  "  THE  HARBOR 


fl  0rk 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1917 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1916  AND  1917 
BT  THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1917 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  May,  1917. 
Reprinted  May,  1917. 


To  M.  A. 


HIS  FAMILY 


HIS  FAMILY 


CHAPTER  I 

HE  was  thinking  of  the  town  he  had  known.  Not  of 
old  New  York — he  had  heard  of  that  from  old,  old  men 
when  he  himself  had  still  been  young  and  had  smiled  at 
their  garrulity.  He  was  thinking  of  a  young  New  York, 
the  mighty  throbbing  city  to  which  he  had  come  long  ago 
as  a  lad  from  the  New  Hampshire  mountains.  A  place 
of  turbulent  thoroughfares,  of  shouting  drivers,  hurrying 
crowds,  the  crack  of  whips  and  the  clatter  of  wheels; 
an  uproarious,  thrilling  town  of  enterprise,  adventure, 
youth;  a  city  of  pulsing  energies,  the  center  of  a  boundless 
land;  a  port  of  commerce  with  all  the  world,  of  stately 
ships  with  snowy  sails;  a  fascinating  pleasure  town,  with 
throngs  of  eager  <$ravellers  hurrying  from  the  ferry  boats 
*** „."*,... Vjn 3  offj'afflifmsom  cabs  to  the  huge  hotels  on  Mad- 
This  deep"  zestyity  where  American  faces  were  still  to 
;vhood  on  a  fa/ '.ws  streets,  a  cleaner  and  a  kindlier  town, 
J^^arnLtesy  in  its  life,  less  of  the  vulgar  scramble. 
A  cifrJp  iBp38'  separate  homes,  of  quiet  streets  with 
rustlin^PK;  with  people  on  the  doorsteps  upon  warm 
summer  evenings  and  groups  of  youngsters  singing  as  they 
came  trooping  by  in  the  dark.  A  place  of  music  and  ro 
mance.  At  the  old  opera  house  downtown,  on  those  daz 
zling  evenings  when  as  a  boy  he  had  ushered  there  for  the 
sake  of  hearing  the  music,  how  the  rich  joy  of  being  alive, 
of  being  young,  of  being  loved,  had  shone  out  of  women's 
eyes.  Shimmering  satins,  dainty  gloves  and  little  jewelled 
slippers,  shapely  arms  and  shoulders,  vivacious  move 
ments,  nods  and  smiles,  swift  glances,  ripples,  bursts 

1 


2  HIS  FAMILY 

of  laughter,  an  exciting  hum  of  voices.  Then  silence, 
sudden  darkness — and  music,  and  the  curtain.  The  great 
wide  curtain  slowly  rising.  .  .  . 

But  all  that  had  passed  away. 

Roger  Gale  was  a  rugged  heavy  man  not  quite  sixty 
years  of  age.  His  broad,  massive  features  were  already 
deeply  furrowed,  and  there  were  two  big  flecks  of  white 
in  his  close-curling,  grayish  hair.  He  lived  in  a  narrow 
red  brick  house  down  on  the  lower  west  side  of  the  town, 
in  a  neighborhood  swiftly  changing.  His  wife  was  dead. 
He  had  no  sons,  but  three  grown  daughters,  of  whom  the 
oldest,  Edith,  had  been  married  many  years.  Laura  and 
Deborah  lived  at  home,  but  they  were  both  out  this 
evening.  It  was  Friday,  Edith's  evening,  and  as  was  her 
habit  she  had  come  from  her  apartment  uptown  to  dine 
with  her  father  and  play  chess.  In  the  living  room,  a 
cheerful  place,  with  its  lamp  light  and  its  shadows,  its  old- 
fashioned  high-back  chairs,  its  sofa,  its  book  cases,  its 
low  marble  mantel  with  the  gilt  mirror  overhead,  they  sat 
at  a  small  oval  table  in  front  of  a  quiet  fire  of  coals.  And 
through  the  smoke  of  his  cigar  ""  ^r  watched  his 
daughter. 

Edith  had  four  children,  and 
A  small  demure  woman  of  thirty- 
and  clear  blue  eyes  and  limbs  softly 
of  her  features  was  full  with  approachmglr,  but 
there  was  a  decided  firmness  in  the  line#  a^MBHr  little 
mouth.  As  he  watched  her  now,  her  father's  eyes,  deep 
set  and  gray  and  with  signs  of  long  years  of  suffering  in 
them,  displayed  a  grave  whimsical  wistfulness.  For  by 
the  way  she  was  playing  the  game  he  saw  how  old  she 
thought  him.  Her  play  was  slow  and  absent-minded, 
and  there  came  long  periods  when  she  did  not  make  a 
move.  Then  she  would  recall  herself  and  look  up  with  a 
little  affectionate  smile  that  showed  she  looked  upon  him 
as  too  heavy  with  his  age  to  have  noticed  her  small  lapses. 


UlgOil  j       -I 

•t 

id  W          OLv 

drty-i  .  3,  wA 


HIS  FAMILY  3 

He  was  grimly  amused  at  her  attitude,  for  he  did  not  feel 
old  at  all.  With  that  whimsical  hint  of  a  smile  which  had 
grown  to  be  a  part  of  him,  he  tried  various  moves  on  the 
board  to  see  how  far  he  could  go  without  interrupting  her 
reveries.  He  checkmated  her,  re-lit  his  cigar  and 
waited  until  she  should  notice  it.  And  when  she  did  not 
notice,  gravely  he  moved  back  his  queen  and  let  the  game 
continue.  How  many  hundreds  of  games,  he  thought, 
Edith  must  have  played  with  him  in  the  long  years  when 
his  spirit  was  dead,  for  her  now  to  take  such  chances. 
Nearly  every  Friday  evening  for  nearly  sixteen  years. 

Before  that,  Judith  his  wife  had  been  here.  It  was  then 
that  the  city  had  been  young,  for  to  Roger  it  had  always 
seemed  as  though  he  were  just  beginning  life.  Into  its 
joys  and  sorrows  too  he  had  groped  his  way  as  most  of  us 
do,  and  had  never  penetrated  deep.  But  he  had  meant 
to,  later  on.  When  in  his  busy  city  days  distractions  had 
arisen,  always  he  had  promised  himself  that  sooner  or 
later  he  would  return  to  this  interest  or  passion,  for  the 
world  still  lay  before  him  with  its  enthralling  interests,  its 
beauties  and  its  pleasures,  its  tasks  and  all  its  puzzles, 
intricate  and  baffling,  all  some  day  to  be  explored. 

This  deep  zest  in  Roger  Gale  had  been  bred  in  his 
boyhood  on  a  farm  up  in  the  New  Hampshire  mountains. 
There  his  family  had  lived  for  many  generations.  And 
from  the  old  house,  the  huge  shadowy  barn  and  the  crude 
little  sawmill  down  the  road;  from  animals,  grown  people 
and  still  more  from  other  boys,  from  the  meadows  and  the 
mountain  above  with  its  cliffs  and  caves  and  forests  of 
pine,  young  Roger  had  discovered,  even  in  those  early 
years,  that  life  was  fresh,  abundant,  new,  with  countless 
glad  beginnings. 

At  seventeen  he  had  come  to  New  York.  There  had 
followed  hard  struggles  in  lean  years,  but  his  rugged  health 
had  buoyed  him  up.  And  there  had  been  genial  friend 
ships  and  dreams  and  explorations,  a  search  for  romance, 


4  HIS  FAMILY 

the  strange  glory  of  love,  a  few  furtive  ventures  that  left 
him  dismayed.  But  though  love  had  seemed  sordid  at 
such  times  it  had  brought  him  crude  exultations.  And  if 
his  existence  had  grown  more  obscure,  it  had  been  somber 
only  in  patches,  the  main  picture  dazzling  still.  And 
still  he  had  been  just  making  starts. 

He  had  ventured  into  the  business  world,  clerking  now 
at  this,  now  at  that,  and  always  looking  about  him  for 
some  big  opportunity.  It  had  come  and  he  had  seized  it, 
despite  the  warnings  of  his  friends.  What  a  wild  adven 
ture  it  had  been — a  bureau  of  news  clippings,  a  business 
new  and  unheard  of — but  he  had  been  sure  that  here  was 
growth,  he  had  worked  at  it  day  and  night,  and  the  busi 
ness  widening  fast  had  revealed  long  ramifications  which 
went  winding  and  stretching  away  into  every  phase  of 
American  life.  And  this  life  was  like  a  forest,  boundless 
and  impenetrable,  up-springing,  intertwining.  How  much 
could  he  ever  know  of  it  all? 

Then  had  come  his  marriage.  Judith's  family  had 
lived  long  in  New  York,  but  some  had  died  and  others 
had  scattered  until  only  she  was  left.  This  house  had 
been  hers,  but  she  had  been  poor,  so  she  had  leased  it  to 
some  friends.  It  was  through  them  he  had  met  her  here, 
and  within  a  few  weeks  he  had  fallen  in  love.  He  had  felt 
profound  disgust  for  the  few  wild  oats  he  had  sown, 
and  in  his  swift  reaction  he  had  overworshipped  the  girl, 
her  beauty  and  her  purity,  until  in  a  delicate  way  of  her 
own  she  had  hinted  that  he  was  going  too  far,  that  she, 
too,  was  human  and  a  passionate  lover  of  living,  in  spite 
of  her  low  quiet  voice  and  her  demure  and  sober  eyes. 

And  what  beginnings  for  Roger  now,  what  a  piling  up 
of  intimate  joys,  surprises,  shocks  of  happiness.  There  had 
come  disappointments,  too,  sudden  severe  little  checks  from 
his  wife  which  had  brought  him  occasional  questionings. 
This  love  had  not  been  quite  all  he  had  dreamed,  this 
woman  not  so  ardent.  He  had  glimpsed  couples  here  and 


HIS  FAMILY  5 

there  that  set  him  to  imagining  more  consuming  passions. 
Here  again  he  had  not  explored  very  deep.  But  he  had 
dismissed  regrets  like  these  with  only  a  slight  reluctance. 
For  if  they  had  settled  down  a  bit  with  the  coming  of  their 
children,  their  love  had  grown  rich  in  sympathies  and 
silent  understandings,  in  humorous  enjoyment  of  their 
funny  little  daughters'  chattering  like  magpies  in  the  genial 
old  house.  And  they  had  looked  happily  far  ahead.  What 
a  woman  she  had  been  for  plans.  It  had  not  been  all 
smooth  sailing.  There  had  come  reverses  in  business,  and 
at  home  one  baby,  a  boy,  had  died.  But  on  they  had  gone 
and  the  years  had  swept  by  until  he  had  reached  his 
forties.  Absorbed  in  his  growing  business  and  in  his 
thriving  family,  it  had  seemed  to  Roger  still  as  though 
he  were  just  starting  out. 

But  one  day,  quite  suddenly,  the  house  had  become  a 
strange  place  to  him  with  a  strange  remote  figure  in  it,  his 
wife.  For  he  had  learned  that  she  must  die.  There  had 
followed  terrible  weeks.  Then  Judith  had  faced  their 
disaster.  Little  by  little  she  had  won  back  the  old  intimacy 
with  her  husband;  and  through  the  slow  but  inexorable 
progress  of  her  ailment,  again  they  had  come  together  in 
long  talks  and  plans  for  their  children.  At  this  same  chess 
board,  in  this  room,  repeatedly  she  would  stop  the  game 
and  smiling  she  would  look  into  the  future.  At  one  such 
time  she  had  said  to  him, 

"I  wonder  if  it  won't  be  the  same  with  the  children 
as  it  has  been  with  us.  No  matter  how  long  each  one  of 
them  lives,  won't  their  lives  feel  to  them  unfinished  like 
ours,  only  just  beginning?  I  wonder  how  far  they  will  go. 
And  then  their  children  will  grow  up  and  it  will  be  the 
same  with  them.  Unfinished  lives.  Oh,  dearie,  what 
children  all  of  us  are."  % 

He  had  put  his  arm  around  her  then  and  had  held 
her  very  tight.  And  feeling  the  violent  trembling  of 
her  husband's  fierce  revolt,  slowly  bending  back  her 


6  HIS  FAMILY 

head  and  looking  up  into  his  eyes  she  had  continued 
steadily: 

"  And  when  you  come  after  me,  my  dear,  oh,  how  hungry 
I  shall  be  for  all  you  will  tell  me.  For  you  will  live  on  in 
our  children's  lives." 

And  she  had  asked  him  to  promise  her  that. 

But  he  had  not  kept  his  promise.  For  after  Judith's 
dying  he  had  felt  himself  terribly  alone,  with  eternity 
around  him,  his  wife  slipping  far  away.  And  the  universe 
had  grown  stark  and  hard,  impersonal,  relentless,  cold. 
A  storm  of  doubts  had  attacked  his  faith.  And  though 
he  had  resisted  long,  for  his  faith  in  God  had  been  rooted 
deep  in  the  mountains  of  New  England,  in  the  end  it  had 
been  wrenched  away,  and  with  it  he  had  lost  all  hope  that 
either  for  Judith  or  himself  was  there  any  existence  be 
yond  the  grave.  So  death  had  come  to  Roger's  soul.  He 
had  been  deaf  and  blind  to  his  children.  Nights  by  the 
thousand  spent  alone.  Like  a  gray  level  road  in  his 
memory  now  was  the  story  of  his  family. 

When  had  his  spirit  begun  to  awaken?  He  could  not 
tell,  it  had  been  so  slow.  His  second  daughter,  Deborah, 
who  had  stayed  at  home  with  her  father  when  Laura  had 
gone  away  to  school,  had  done  little  things  continually  to 
rouse  his  interest  in  life.  Edith's  winsome  babies  had  at 
tracted  him  when  they  came  to  the  house.  Laura  had 
returned  from  school,  a  joyous  creature,  tall  and  slender, 
with  snapping  black  eyes,  and  had  soon  made  her  presence 
felt.  One  day  in  the  early  afternoon,  as  he  entered  the 
house  there  had  burst  on  his  ears  a  perfect  gale  of  laughter; 
and  peering  through  the  portieres  he  had  seen  the  dining- 
room  full  of  young  girls,  a  crew  as  wild  as  Laura  herself. 
Hastily  he  had  retreated  upstairs.  But  he  had  enjoyed 
such  glimpses.  He  had  liked  to  see  her  fresh  pretty  gowns 
and  to  have  her  come  in  and  kiss  him  good-night. 

Then  had  come  a  sharp  heavy  jolt.  His  business  had 
suffered  from  long  neglect,  and  suddenly  for  two  anxious 


HIS  FAMILY  7 

weeks  he  had  found  himself  facing  bankruptcy.  Edith's 
husband,  a  lawyer,  had  come  to  his  aid  and  together  they 
had  pulled  out  of  the  hole.  But  he  had  been  forced  to 
mortgage  the  house.  And  this  had  brought  to  a  climax 
all  the  feelings  of  guiltiness  which  had  so  long  been  stirring 
within  him  over  his  failure  to  live  up  to  the  promise  he 
had  made  his  wife. 

And  so  Roger  had  looked  at  his  children. 

And  at  first  to  his  profound  surprise  he  had  had  it  forced 
upon  him  that  these  were  three  grown  women,  each 
equipped  with  her  own  peculiar  feminine  traits  and  de 
sires,  the  swift  accumulations  of  lives  which  had  expanded 
in  a  city  that  had  reared  to  the  skies  in  the  many  years 
of  his  long  sleep.  But  very  slowly,  month  by  month,  he 
had  gained  a  second  impression  which  seemed  to  him 
deeper  and  more  real.  To  the  eye  they  were  grown  women 
all,  but  inwardly  they  were  children  still,  each  groping  for 
her  happiness  and  each  held  back  as  he  had  been,  either  by 
checks  within  herself  or  by  the  gay  distractions  of  the  ab 
sorbing  city.  He  saw  each  of  his  daughters,  parts  of  him 
self.  And  he  remembered  what  Judith  had  said :  "  You  will 
live  on  in  our  children's  lives."  And  he  began  to  get  glim 
merings  of  a  new  immortality,  made  up  of  generations, 
an  endless  succession  of  other  lives  extending  into  the 
future. 

Some  of  all  this  he  remembered  now,  in  scattered  frag 
ments  here  and  there.  Then  from  somewhere  far  away 
a  great  bell  began  booming  the  hour,  and  it  roused  him 
from  his  re  very.  He  had  often  heard  the  bell  of  late.  A 
calm  deep-toned  intruder,  it  had  first  struck  in  upon 
his  attention  something  over  two  years  ago.  Vaguely  he 
had  wondered  about  it.  Soon  he  had  found  it  was 
on  the  top  of  a  tower  a  little  to  the  north,  one  of  the  highest 
pinnacles  of  this  tumultuous  modern  town.  But  the  bell 
was  not  tumultuous.  And  as  he  listened  it  seemed  to  say, 
"There  is  still  time,  but  you  have  not  long." 


8  HIS  FAMILY 

Edith,  sitting  opposite  him,  looked  up  at  the  sound  with 
a  stir  of  relief.  Ten  o'clock.  It  was  time  to  go  home. 

"I  wonder  what's  keeping  Bruce,"  she  said.  Bruce  was 
still  in  his  office  downtown.  As  a  rule  on  Friday  evenings 
he  came  with  his  wife  to  supper  here,  but  this  week  he 
had  some  new  business  on  hand.  Edith  was  vague  about 
it.  As  she  tried  to  explain  she  knitted  her  brows  and  said 
that  Bruce  was  working  too  hard.  And  her  father  grunted 
assent. 

"  Bruce  ought  to  knock  off  every  summer,"  he  said, 
"for  a  good  solid  month,  or  better  two.  Can't  you  bring 
him  up  to  the  mountains  this  year?"  He  referred  to  the 
old  New  Hampshire  home  which  he  had  kept  as  a  summer 
place.  But  Edith  smiled  at  the  idea. 

"Yes,  I  could  bring  him,"  she  replied,  "and  in  a  week 
he'd  be  perfectly  crazy  to  get  back  to  his  office  again." 
She  compressed  her  lips.  "I  know  what  he  needs — and 
we'll  do  it  some  day,  in  spite  of  him." 

"A  suburb,  eh,"  her  father  said,  and  his  face  took  on  a 
look  of  dislike.  They  had  often  talked  of  suburbs. 

"Yes,"  his  daughter  answered,  "I've  picked  out  the 
very  house."  He  threw  at  her  a  glance  of  impatience.  He 
knew  what  had  started  her  on  this  line.  Edith's  friend, 
Madge  Deering,  was  living  out  in  Morristown.  All  very 
well,  he  reflected,  but  her  case  was  not  at  all  the  same. 
He  had  known  Madge  pretty  well.  Although  the  death 
of  her  husband  had  left  her  a  widow  at  twenty-nine,  with 
four  small  daughters  to  bring  up,  she  had  gone  on  deter 
minedly.  Naturally  smart  and  able,  Madge  was  always 
running  to  town,  keeping  up  with  all  her  friends  and  with 
every  new  fad  and  movement  there,  although  she  made 
fun  of  most  of  them.  Twice  she  had  taken  her  girls  abroad. 
But  Edith  was  quite  different.  In  a  suburb  she  would 
draw  into  her  house  and  never  grow  another  inch.  And 
Bruce,  poor  devil,  would  commute  and  take  work  home 
from  the  office.  But  Roger  couldn't  tell  her  that. 


HIS  FAMILY  9 

"I'd  be  sorry  to  see  you  do  it,"  he  said.  "I'd  miss  you 
up  in  the  mountains." 

"Oh,  we'd  come  up  in  the  summer,"  she  answered.  "I 
wouldn't  miss  the  mountains  for  worlds!" 

Then  they  talked  of  summer  plans.  And  soon  again 
Edith's  smooth  pretty  brows  were  wrinkling  absorbedly. 
It  was  hard  in  her  planning  not  to  be  sure  whether  her 
new  baby  would  come  in  May  or  early  June.  It  was  only 
the  first  of  April  now.  While  she  talked  her  father  watched 
her.  He  liked  her  quiet  fearlessness  in  facing  the  ordeal 
ahead.  Into  the  bewildering  city  he  felt  her  searching 
anxiously  to  find  good  things  for  her  small  brood,  to  make 
every  dollar  count,  to  keep  their  little  bodies  strong,  to 
guard  their  hungry  little  souls  from  many  things  she 
thought  were  bad.  Of  all  his  daughters,  he  told  himself, 
she  was  the  one  most  like  his  wife. 

While  she  was  talking  Bruce  came  in.  Of  medium 
height  and  a  wiry  build,  his  quick  kindly  smile  of  greeting 
did  not  conceal  the  fine  tight  lines  about  his  mouth  and 
between  his  eyes.  His  small  trim  moustache  was  black, 
but  his  hair  already  showed  streaks  of  gray  although  he 
was  not  quite  thirty-eight,  and  as  he  lit  a  cigarette  his 
right  hand  twitched  perceptibly. 

Bruce  Cunningham  had  married  just  after  he  left  law 
school.  He  had  worked  in  a  law  office  which  took  re 
ceiverships  by  the  score,  and  through  managing  bankrupt 
concerns  by  slow  degrees  he  had  made  himself  a  financial 
surgeon.  He  had  set  up  an  office  of  his  own  and  was  doing 
splendidly.  But  he  worked  under  fearful  tension.  Bruce 
had  to  deal  with  bankrupts  who  had  barely  closed  their 
eyes  for  weeks,  men  half  out  of  their  minds  from  the  strain, 
the  struggle  to  keep  up  their  heads  in  those  angry  waters 
of  finance  which  Roger  vaguely  pictured  as  a  giant  whirl 
pool.  Though  honest  enough  in  his  own  affairs,  Bruce 
showed  a  genial  relish  for  all  the  tricks  of  the  savage 
world  which  was  as  the  breath  to  his  nostrils.  And  at 


10  HIS  FAMILY 

times  he  appeared  so  wise  and  keen  he  made  Roger 
feel  like  a  child.  But  again  it  was  Bruce  who  seemed  the 
child.  He  seemed  to  be  so  naive  at  times,  and  Edith 
had  him  so  under  her  thumb.  Roger  liked  to  hear  Bruce's 
stories  of  business,  when  Edith  would  let  her  husband  talk. 
But  this  she  would  not  often  do,  for  she  said  Bruce  needed 
rest  at  night.  She  reproved  him  now  for  staying  so  late, 
she  wrung  from  him  the  fact  that  he'd  had  no  supper. 

"Well,  Bruce,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently,  "now  isn't 
that  just  like  you?  You're  going  straight  home — that's 
where  you're  going — " 

"To  be  fed  up  and  put  to  bed,"  her  husband  grumbled 
good-naturedly.  And  while  she  made  ready  to  bundle  him 
off  he  turned  to  his  father-in-law. 

"What  do  you  think's  my  latest?'1'  he  asked,  and  he 
gave  a  low  chuckle  which  Roger  liked.  "Last  week  I  was 
a  brewer,  to-day  I'm  an  engineer,"  he  said.  "Can  you 
beat  it?  A  building  contractor.  Me."  And  as  he  smoked 
his  cigarette,  in  laconic  phrases  he  explained  how  a  huge 
steel  construction  concern  had  gone  to  the  wall,  through 
building  skyscrapers  "on  spec"  and  outstripping  even  the 
growth  of  New  York.  "They  got  into  court  last  week," 
he  said,  "and  the  judge  handed  me  the  receivership.  The 
judge  and  I  have  been  chums  for  years.  He  has  hay 
fever — so  do  I." 

"Come,  Bruce,  I'm  ready,"  said  his  wife. 

"I've  been  in  their  office  all  day,"  he  went  on.  "Their 
general  manager  was  stark  mad.  He  hadn't  been  out  of 
the  office  since  last  Sunday  night,  he  said.  You  had  to  ask 
him  a  question  and  wait — while  he  looked  at  you  and  held 
onto  his  chair.  He  broke  down  and  blubbered — the  poor 
damn  fool — he'll  be  in  Matteawan  in  a  week — " 

"You'll  be  there  yourself  if  you  don't  come  home," 
broke  in  Edith's  voice  impatiently. 

"And  out  of  that  poor  devil,  and  out  of  the  mess  his 
books  are  in,  I've  been  learning  engineering!" 


HIS  FAMILY  11 

He  had  followed  his  wife  out  on  the  steps.  He  turned 
back  with  a  quick  appealing  smile: 

"Well,  good-night — see  you  soon — " 

"Good-night,  my  boy/7  said  Roger.  "Good  luck  to 
the  engineering." 

"Oh,  father  dear,"  cried  Edith,  from  the  taxi  down 
below.  "Remember  supper  Sunday  night — " 

"I  won't  forget,"  said  Roger. 

He  watched  them  start  off  up  the  street.  The  night 
was  soft,  refreshing,  and  the  place  was  quiet  and  personal. 
The  house  was  one  of  a  dozen  others,  some  of  red  brick 
and  some  of  brown  stone,  that  stood  in  an  uneven  row 
on  a  street  but  a  few  rods  in  length,  one  side  of  a  little 
triangular  park  enclosed  by  a  low  iron  fence,  inside  of 
which  were  a  few  gnarled  trees  and  three  or  four  park 
benches.  On  one  of  these  benches  his  eye  was  caught  by 
the  figure  of  an  old  woman  there,  and  he  stood  a  moment 
watching  her,  some  memory  stirring  in  his  mind. 

Occasionally  somebody  passed.  Otherwise  it  was  silent 
here.  But  even  in  the  silence  could  be  felt  the  throes  of 
change;  the  very  atmosphere  seemed  charged  with  drastic 
things  impending.  Already  the  opposite  house  line  had 
been  broken  near  the  center  by  a  high  apartment  building, 
and  another  still  higher  rose  like  a  cliff  just  back  of  the 
house  in  which  Roger  lived.  Still  others,  and  many  factory 
lofts,  reared  shadowy  bulks  on  every  hand.  From  the 
top  of  one  an  enormous  sign,  a  corset  pictured  forth  in 
lights,  flashed  out  at  regular  intervals;  and  from  farther 
off,  high  up  in  the  misty  haze  of  the  night,  could  be  seen 
the  gleaming  pinnacle  where  hour  by  hour  that  great  bell 
slowly  boomed  the  time  away.  Yes,  here  the  old  was 
passing.  Already  the  tiny  parklet  was  like  the  dark 
bottom  of  a  pit,  v/ith  the  hard  sparkling  modern  town 
towering  on  every  side,  slowly  pressing,  pressing  in  and 
glaring  down  with  yellow  eyes. 


12  HIS  FAMILY 

But  Roger  noticed  none  of  these  things.  He  watched 
the  old  woman  on  the  bench  and  groped  for  the  memory 
she  had  stirred.  Ah,  now  at  last  he  had  it.  An  April 
night  long,  long  ago,  when  he  had  sat  where  she  was  now, 
while  here  in  the  house  his  wife's  first  baby,  Edith,  had 
begun  her  life.  .  .  . 

Slowly  he  turned  and  went  inside. 


CHAPTER  II 

ROGER'S  hearing  was  extremely  acute.  Though  the 
room  where  he  was  sitting,  his  study,  was  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  he  heard  Deborah's  key  at  the  street  door 
and  he  heard  the  door  softly  open  and  close. 

"Are  you  there,  dearie?"  Her  voice  from  the  hallway 
was  low;  and  his  answer,  "Yes,  child,"  was  in  the  same 
tone,  as  though  she  were  with  him  in  the  room.  This 
keen  sense  of  hearing  had  long  been  a  peculiar  bond  be 
tween  them.  To  her  father,  Deborah's  voice  was  the  most 
distinctive  part  of  her,  for  often  as  he  listened  the  memory 
came  of  her  voice  as  a  girl,  unpleasant,  hurried  and  stam 
mering.  But  she  had  overcome  all  that.  "No  grown 
woman,"  she  had  declared,  when  she  was  eighteen,  "has 
any  excuse  for  a  voice  like  mine."  That  was  eleven  years 
ago;  and  the  voice  she  had  acquired  since,  with  its  sweet 
magnetic  quality,  its  clear  and  easy  articulation,  was  to 
him  an  expression  of  Deborah's  growth.  As  she  took  off 
her  coat  and  hat  in  the  hall  she  said,  in  the  same  low  tone 
as  before, 

"Edith  has  been  here,  I  suppose — " 

"Yes—" 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  missed  her.  I  tried  to  get  home  early, 
but  it  has  been  a  busy  night." 

Her  voice  sounded  tired,  comfortably  so,  and  she  looked 
that  way  as  she  came  in.  Though  only  a  little  taller  than 
Edith,  she  was  of  a  sturdier  build  and  more  decided  fea 
tures.  Her  mouth  was  large  with  a  humorous  droop  and 
her  face  rather  broad  with  high  cheekbones.  As  she  put 
her  soft  black  hair  up  over  her  high  forehead,  her 
father  noticed  her  birthmark,  a  faint  curving  line  of  red 

13 


14  HIS  FAMILY 

running  up  from  between  her  eyes.  Imperceptible  as  a  rule, 
it  showed  when  she  was  tired.  In  the  big  school  in  the 
tenements  where  she  had  taught  for  many  years,  she  gave 
herself  hard  without  stint  to  her  work,  but  she  had  such  a 
good  time  through  it  all.  She  had  a  way,  too,  he  reflected, 
of  always  putting  things  in  their  place.  As  now  she  came 
in  and  kissed  him  and  sank  back  on  his  leather  lounge 
with  a  tranquil  breath  of  relief,  she  seemed  to  be  dropping 
school  out  of  her  life. 

Roger  picked  up  his  paper  and  continued  his  reading. 
Presently  they  would  have  a  talk,  but  first  he  knew  that 
she  wanted  to  lie  quite  still  for  a  little  while.  Vaguely  he 
pictured  her  work  that  night,  her  class-room  packed  to 
bursting  with  small  Jews  and  Italians,  and  Deborah  at 
the  blackboard  with  a  long  pointer  in  her  hand.  The  fact 
that  for  the  last  two  years  she  had  been  the  principal  of 
her  school  had  made  little  impression  upon  him. 

And  meanwhile,  as  she  lay  back  with  eyes  closed,  her 
mind  still  taut  from  the  evening  called  up  no  simple 
class-room  but  far  different  places — a  mass  meeting  in 
Carnegie  Hall  where  she  had  just  been  speaking,  some 
schools  which  she  had  fisited  out  in  Indiana,  a  block  of 
tenements  far  downtown  and  the  private  office  of  the 
mayor.  For  her  school  had  long  curious  arms  these  days. 

"Was  Bruce  here  too  this  evening?"  she  asked  her 
father  presently.  Roger  finished  what  he  was  reading, 
then  looked  over  to  the  lounge,  which  was  in  a  shadowy 
corner. 

"Yes,  he  came  in  late."  And  he  went  on  to  tell  her  of 
Bruce' s  "engineering."  At  once  she  was  interested.  Rising 
on  one  elbow  she  questioned  him  good-humoredly,  for 
Deborah  was  fond  of  Bruce. 

"Has  he  bought  that  automobile  he  wanted?" 

"No,"  replied  her  father.  "Edith  said  they  couldn't 
afford  it." 

"Why  not?" 


HIS  FAMILY  15 

"This  time  it's  the  dentist's  bills.  Young  Betsy's 
teeth  aren't  straightened  yet — and  as  soon  as  she's  been 
beautified  they're  going  to  put  the  clamps  on  George." 

"Poor  Georgie,"  Deborah  murmured.  At  the  look  of 
pain  and  disapproval  on  her  father's  heavy  face,  she 
smiled  quietly  to  herself.  George,  who  was  Edith's  oldest 
and  the  worry  of  her  days,  was  Roger's  favorite  grandson. 
"Has  he  been  bringing  home  any  more  sick  dogs?" 

"No,  this  time  it  was  a  rat — a  white  one,"  Roger 
answered.  A  glint  of  dry  relish  appeared  in  his  eyes. 
"George  brought  it  home  the  other  night.  He  had  on  a 
pair  of  ragged  old  pants." 

"What  on  earth—" 

"He  had  traded  his  own  breeches  for  the  rat,"  said 
Roger  placidly. 

"No!  Oh,  father!  Really!"  And  she  sank  back  laugh 
ing  on  the  lounge. 

"His  school  report,"  said  Roger,  "was  quite  as  bad  as 
ever." 

"Of  course  it  was,"  said  Deborah.  And  she  spoke  so 
sharply  that  her  father  glanced  at  her  in  surprise.  She 
was  up  again  on  one  elbow,  and  there  was  an  eager  expres 
sion  on  her  bright  attractive  face.  "Do  you  know  what 
we're  going  to  do  some  day?  We're  going  to  put  the  rat 
in  the  school,"  Deborah  said  impatiently.  "We're  going 
to  take  a  boy  like  George  and  study  him  till  we  think  we 
know  just  what  interests  him  most.  And  if  in  his  case  it's 
animals,  we'll  have  a  regular  zoo  in  school.  And  for  other 
boys  we'll  have  other  things  they  really  want  to  know 
about.  And  we'll  keep  them  until  five  o'clock — when 
their  mothers  will  have  to  drag  them  away."  Her  father 
looked  bewildered. 

"But  arithmetic,  my  dear." 

"You'll  find  they'll  have  learned  their  arithmetic  with 
out  knowing  it,"  Deborah  answered. 

"Sounds  a  bit  wild,"  murmured  Roger.    Again  to  his 


16  HIS  FAMILY 

mind  came  the  picture  of  hordes  of  little  Italians  and  Jews. 
"My  dear,  if  I  had  your  children  to  teach,  I  don't  think 
I'd  add  a  zoo, "  he  said.  And  with  a  breath  of  discomfort 
he  turned  back  to  his  reading.  He  knew  that  he  ought 
to  question  her,  to  show  an  interest  in  her  work.  But 
he  had  a  deep  aversion  for  those  millions  of  foreign  tene 
ment  people,  always  shoving,  shoving  upward  through 
the  filth  of  their  surroundings.  They  had  already  spoiled 
his  neighborhood,  they  had  flowed  up  like  an  ocean  tide. 
And  so  he  read  his  paper,  frowning  guiltily  down  at  the 
page.  He  glanced  up  in  a  little  while  and  saw  Deborah 
smiling  across  at  him,  reading  his  dislike  of  such  talk. 
The  smile  which  he  sent  back  at  her  was  half  apologetic, 
half  an  appeal  for  mercy.  And  Deborah  seemed  to  under 
stand.  She  went  into  the  living  room,  and  there  at  the 
piano  she  was  soon  playing  softly.  Listening  from  his 
study,  again  the  feeling  came  to  him  of  her  fresh  and  abun 
dant  vitality.  He  mused  a  little  enviously  on  how  it  must 
feel  to  be  strong  like  that,  never  really  tired. 

And  while  her  father  thought  in  this  wise,  Deborah  at 
the  piano,  leaning  back  with  eyes  half  closed,  could  feel 
her  tortured  nerves  relax,  could  feel  her  pulse  stop  throb 
bing  so  and  the  dull  aching  at  her  temples  little  by  little 
pass  away.  She  played  like  this  so  many  nights.  Soon 
she  would  be  ready  for  sleep. 

After  she  had  gone  to  bed,  Roger  rose  heavily  from  his 
chair.  By  long  habit  he  went  about  the  house  trying  the 
windows  and  turning  out  lights.  Last  he  came  to  the 
front  door.  There  were  double  outer  doors  with  a  pon 
derous  system  of  locks  and  bolts  and  a  heavy  chain.  Me 
chanically  he  fastened  them  all;  and  putting  out  the  light 
in  the  hall,  in  the  darkness  he  went  up  the  stairs.  He 
could  so  easily  feel  his  way.  He  put  his  hand  lightly,  first 
on  the  foot  of  the  banister,  then  on  a  curve  in  it  halfway 
up,  again  on  the  sharper  curve  at  the  top  and  last  on  the 


HIS  FAMILY  17 

knob  of  his  bedroom  door.  And  it  was  as  though  these 
guiding  objects  came  out  to  meet  him  like  old  friends. 

In  his  bedroom,  while  he  slowly  undressed,  his  glance 
was  caught  by  the  picture  upon  the  wall  opposite  his  bed, 
a  little  landscape  poster  done  in  restful  tones  of  blue,  of 
two  herdsmen  and  their  cattle  far  up  on  a  mountainside 
in  the  hour  just  before  the  dawn,  tiny  clear-cut  silhouettes 
against  the  awakening  eastern  sky.  So  immense  and  still, 
this  birth  of  the  day — the  picture  always  gave  him  the 
feeling  of  life  everlasting.  Judith  his  wife  had  placed  it 
there. 

From  his  bed  through  the  window  close  beside  him  he 
looked  up  at  the  cliff-like  wall  of  the  new  apartment  build 
ing,  with  tier  upon  tier  of  windows  from  which  murmurous 
voices  dropped  out  of  the  dark:  now  soft,  now  suddenly 
angry,  loud;  now  droning,  sullen,  bitter,  hard;  now  gay 
with  little  screams  of  mirth;  now  low  and  amorous,  drowsy 
sounds.  Tier  upon  tier  of  modern  homes,  all  overhanging 
Roger's  house  as  though  presently  to  crush  it  down. 

But  Roger  was  not  thinking  of  that.  He  was  thinking 
of  his  children — of  Edith's  approaching  confinement  and 
all  her  anxious  hunting  about  to  find  what  was  best  for  her 
family,  of  Bruce  and  the  way  he  was  driving  himself  in 
the  unnatural  world  downtown  where  men  were  at  each 
other's  throats,  of  Deborah  and  that  school  of  hers  in  the 
heart  of  a  vast  foul  region  of  tenement  buildings  swarming 
with  strange,  dirty  little  urchins.  And  last  he  thought  of 
Laura,  his  youngest  daughter,  wild  as  a  hawk,  gadding 
about  the  Lord  knew  where.  She  even  danced  in  restau 
rants!  Through  his  children  he  felt  flowing  into  his  house 
the  seething  life  of  this  new  town.  And  drowsily  he  told 
himself  he  must  make  a  real  effort,  and  make  it  soon,  to 
know  his  family  better.  For  in  spite  of  the  storm  of  long 
ago  which  had  swept  away  his  faith  in  God,  the  feeling 
had  come  to  him  of  late  that  somewhere,  in  some  manner, 
he  was  to  meet  his  wife  again.  He  rarely  tried  to  think 


18  HIS  FAMILY 

this  out,  for  as  soon  as  he  did  it  became  a  mere  wish,  a 
hungry  longing,  nothing  more.  So  he  had  learned  to  let 
it  lie,  deep  down  inside  of  him.  Sometimes  he  vividly  saw 
her  face.  After  all,  who  could  tell?  And  she  would  want 
to  hear  of  her  children.  Yes,  he  must  know  them  better. 
Some  day  soon  he  must  begin. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  Laura  had  not  yet  come 
home.  With  a  sigh  of  discomfort  he  got  out  of  bed  and 
went  downstairs,  relit  the  gas  in  the  hallway,  unfastened 
the  locks  and  the  chain  at  the  door.  He  came  back 
and  was  soon  asleep.  He  must  have  dozed  for  an  hour  or 
two.  He  was  roused  by  hearing  the  front  door  close  and  a 
big  motor  thundering.  And  then  like  a  flash  of  light  in 
the  dark  came  Laura's  rippling  laughter. 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  the  next  evening,  Saturday,  while  Roger  ate  his 
dinner,  Laura  came  to  sit  with  him.  She  herself  was  dining 
out.  That  she  should  have  dressed  so  early  in  order  to 
keep  him  company  had  caused  her  father  some  surprise, 
and  a  faint  suspicion  entered  his  mind  that  she  had  over 
drawn  at  the  bank,  as  she  had  the  last  time  she  sat  with 
him  like  this.  Her  manner  certainly  was  a  bit  strange. 

But  Roger  put  the  thought  aside.  Whatever  she  wanted, 
Laura  was  worth  it.  In  a  tingling  fashion  he  felt  what  a 
glorious  time  she  was  having,  what  a  gorgeous  town  she 
knew.  It  was  difficult  to  realize  she  was  his  own 
daughter,  this  dashing  stranger  sitting  here,  playing  idly 
with  a  knife  and  caressing  him  with  her  voice  and  her  eyes. 
The  blue  evening  gown  she  was  wearing  to-night  (doubtless 
not  yet  paid  for)  made  her  figure  even  more  supple  and 
lithe,  set  off  her  splendid  bosom,  her  slender  neck,  her 
creamy  skin.  Her  hair,  worn  low  over  her  temples,  was 
brown  with  just  a  tinge  of  red.  Her  eyes  were  black, 
with  gleaming  lights;  her  lips  were  warm  and  rich,  alive. 
He  did  not  approve  of  her  lips.  Once  when  she  had 
kissed  him  Roger  had  started  slightly  back.  For  his 
daughter's  lips  were  rouged,  and  they  had  reminded  him 
of  his  youth.  He  had  asked  her  sister  to  speak  to  her.  But 
Deborah  had  told  him  she  did  not  care  to  speak  to  people 
in  that  way — "  especially  women — especially  sisters,7'  she 
had  said,  with  a  quiet  smile.  All  very  well,  he  reflected, 
but  somebody  ought  to  take  Laura  in  hand. 

She  had  been  his  favorite  as  a  child,  his  pet,  his  tiny 
daughter.  He  remembered  her  on  his  lap  like  a  kitten. 
How  she  had  liked  to  cuddle  there.  And  she  had  liked  to 

19 


20  HIS  FAMILY 

bite  his  hand,  a  curious  habit  in  a  child.  "I  hurt  daddy!" 
He  could  still  recollect  the  gay  little  laugh  with  which  she 
said  that,  looking  up  brightly  into  his  face. 

And  here  she  was  already  grown,  and  like  a  light  in  the 
sober  old  house,  fascinating  while  she  disturbed  him.  He 
liked  to  hear  her  high  pitched  voice,  gossiping  in  Deb 
orah's  room  or  in  her  own  dainty  chamber  chatting 
with  the  adoring  maid  who  was  dressing  her  to  go  out. 
He  loved  her  joyous  thrilling  laugh.  And  he  would  have 
missed  her  from  the  house  as  he  would  have  missed  Fifth 
Avenue  if  it  had  been  dropped  from  the  city.  For  the 
picture  Roger  had  formed  of  this  daughter  was  more  of  a 
symbol  than  of  a  girl,  a  symbol  of  the  ardent  town,  spend 
ing,  wasting,  dancing  mad.  It  was  Laura  who  had  kept 
him  living  right  up  to  his  income. 

"  Where  are  you  dining  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"With  the  Raymonds."  He  wondered  who  they  were. 
"  Oh,  Sarah,"  she  added  to  the  maid.  "  Call  up  Mrs.  Ray 
mond's  apartment  and  ask  what  time  is  dinner  to-night." 

"Are  you  going  to  dance  later  on?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  I  guess  so,"  she  replied.  "On  the  Astor  Roof,  I 
think  they  said — " 

Her  father  went  on  with  his  dinner.  These  hotel  dances, 
he  had  heard,  ran  well  into  Sunday  morning.  How  Judith 
would  have  disapproved.  He  hesitated  uneasily. 

"I  don't  especially  care  for  this  dancing  into  Sunday," 
he  said.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  look  up  from  his  plate. 
When  he  did  he  saw  Laura  regarding  him. 

"Oh,  do  you  mind?  I'm  sorry.  I  won't,  after  this," 
she  answered.  And  Roger  colored  angrily,  for  the  glint 
of  amusement  in  Laura's  mischievous  black  eyes  revealed 
quite  unmistakably  that  she  regarded  both  her  father  and 
his  feeling  for  the  Sabbath  as  very  dear  and  quaint  and 
old.  Old?  Of  course  he  seemed  old  to  her,  Roger  thought 
indignantly.  For  what  was  Laura  but  a  child?  Did  she 
ever  think  of  anything  except  having  a  good  time?  Had 


HIS  FAMILY  21 

she  ever  stopped  to  think  out  her  own  morals,  let  alone 
anyone  else's?  Was  she  any  judge  of  what  was  old — or  of 
who  was  old?  And  he  determined  then  and  there  to  show 
her  he  was  in  his  prime.  Impatiently  he  strove  to  re 
member  the  names  of  her  friends  and  ask  her  about  them, 
to  show  a  keen  lively  interest  in  this  giddy  gaddy  life  she 
led.  And  when  that  was  rather  a  failure  he  tried  his 
daughter  next  on  books,  books  of  the  most  modern  kind. 
Stoutly  he  lied  and  said  he  was  reading  a  certain  Russian 
novel  of  which  he  had  heard  Deborah  speak.  But  this 
valiant  falsehood  made  no  impression  whatever,  for  Laura 
had  never  heard  of  the  book. 

"I  get  so  little  time  for  reading/'  she  murmured.  And 
meanwhile  she  was  thinking,  "  As  soon  as  he  finishes  talk 
ing,  poor  dear,  I'll  break  the  news." 

Then  Roger  had  an  audacious  thought.  He  would  take 
her  to  a  play,  by  George!  Mustering  his  courage  he  led 
up  to  it  by  speaking  of  a  play  Deborah  had  seen,  a  full- 
fledged  modern  drama  all  centered  upon  the  right  of  a 
woman  "to  lead  her  own  life."  And  as  he  outlined  the 
story,  he  saw  he  had  caught  his  daughter's  attention. 
With  her  pretty  chin  resting  on  one  hand,  watching  him 
and  listening,  she  appeared  much  older,  and  she  seemed 
suddenly  close  to  him. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  with  me  and  see  it  some 
evening?"  he  inquired. 

"See  what,  my  love?"  she  asked  him,  her  thoughts 
plainly  far  away;  and  he  looked  at  her  in  astonish 
ment: 

"That  play  I've  just  been  speaking  of!" 

"Why,  daddy,  I'd  love  to!"  she  exclaimed. 

"When?"  he  asked.  And  he  fixed  a  night.  He  was 
proud  of  himself  Eagerly  he  began  to  talk  of  opening 
nights  at  Wallack's.  Roger  and  Judith,  when  they  were 
young,  had  been  great  first  nighters  there.  And  now  it 
was  Laura  who  drew  him  out,  and  as  he  talked  on  she 


22  HIS  FAMILY 

seemed  to  him  to  be  smilingly  trying  to  picture  it  all.  .  .  . 
"Now  I'd  better  tell  him,"  she  thought. 

"Do  you  remember  Harold  Sloane?"  she  asked  a  little 
strangely. 

"No,"  replied  her  father,  a  bit  annoyed  at  the  inter 
ruption. 

"Why — you've  met  him  two  or  three  times — " 

"Have  I?"  The  queer  note  in  her  voice  made  him 
look  up.  Laura  had  risen  from  her  chair. 

"I  want  you  to  know  him — very  soon."  There  was  a 
moment's  silence.  "I'm  going  to  marry  him,  dad,"  she 
said.  And  Roger  looked  at  her  blankly.  He  felt  his  limbs 
beginning  to  tremble.  "I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you 
when  we  were  alone,"  she  added  in  an  awkward  tone. 
And  still  staring  up  at  her  he  felt  a  rush  of  tenderness 
and  a  pang  of  deep  remorse.  Laura  in  love  and  settled 
for  life!  And  what  did  he  know  of  the  affair?  What  had 
he  ever  done  for  her?  Too  late!  He  had  begun  too  late! 
And  this  rush  of  emotion  was  so  overpowering  that  while 
he  still  looked  at  her  blindly  she  was  the  first  to  recover 
her  poise.  She  came  around  the  table  and  kissed  him 
softly  on  the  cheek.  And  now  more  than  ever  Roger  felt 
how  old  his  daughter  thought  him. 

"Who  is  he?"  he  asked  hoarsely.  And  she  answered 
smiling, 

"A  perfectly  nice  young  man  named  Sloane." 

"Don't,  Laura—tell  me!    What  does  he  do?" 

"He's  in  a  broker's  office — 'junior  member  of  the  firm. 
Oh,  you  needn't  worry,  dear,  he  can  even  afford  to  marry  me." 

They  heard  a  ring  at  the  front  door. 

"There  he  is  now,  I  think,"  she  said.  "Will  you  see 
him?  Would  you  mind?" 

"See  him?    No!"  her  father  cried. 

"But  just  to  shake  hands,"  she  insisted.  "You  needn't 
talk  or  say  a  word.  We've  only  a  moment,  anyway." 
And  she  went  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 


HIS  FAMILY  23 

'  Roger  rose  in  a  panic  and  strode  up  and  down.  Before 
he  could  recover  himself  she  was  back  with  her  man,  or 
rather  her  boy — for  the  fellow,  to  her  father's  eyes,  looked 
ridiculously  young.  Straight  as  an  arrow,  slender,  his 
dress  suit  irreproachable,  the  chap  nevertheless  was  more 
than  a  dandy.  He  looked  hard,  as  though  he  trained,  and 
his  smooth  and  ruddy  face  had  a  look  of  shrewd  self- 
reliance.  So  much  of  him  Roger  fathomed  in  the  indignant 
cornered  glance  with  which  he  welcomed  him  into  the 
room. 

"Why,  good  evening,  Mr.  Gale — glad  to  see  you  again, 
sir!"  Young  Sloane  nervously  held  out  his  hand.  Roger 
took  it  and  muttered  something.  For  several  moments, 
his  mind  in  a  whirl,  he  heard  their  talk  and  laughter  and 
his  own  voice  joining  in.  Laura  seemed  enjoying  herself, 
her  eyes  brimming  with  amusement  over  both  her  victims. 
But  at  last  she  had  compassion,  kissed  her  father  gaily 
and  took  her  suitor  out  of  the  room. 

Soon  Roger  heard  them  leave  the  house.  He  went  into 
his  study,  savagely  bit  off  a  cigar  and  gripped  his  evening 
paper  as  though  he  meant  to  choke  it.  The  maid  came  in 
with  coffee.  "Coffee?  No!"  he  snapped  at  her.  A  few 
moments  later  he  came  to  his  senses  and  found  himself 
smoking  fast  and  hard.  He  heartily  damned  this  fellow 
Sloane  for  breaking  into  the  family  and  asking  poor  Laura 
to  risk  her  whole  life — just  for  his  own  selfish  pleasure, 
his  whim !  Yes, ' '  whim  "  was  the  very  word  for  it !  Laura's 
attitude,  too!  Did  she  look  at  it  seriously?  Not  at  all! 
Quite  plainly  she  saw  her  career  as  one  long  Highland  fling 
and  dance,  with  this  Harry  boy  as  her  partner!  Who  had 
he  danced  with  in  his  past?  The  fellow's  past  must  be 
gone  into,  and  at  once,  without  delay! 

Here  indeed  was  a  jolt  for  Roger  Gale,  a  pretty  shabby 
trick  of  fate.  This  was  not  what  he  had  planned,  this 
was  a  little  way  life  had  of  jabbing  a  man  with  surprises. 
For  months  he  had  been  slowly  and  comfortably  feeling 


24  HIS  FAMILY 

his  way  into  the  lives  of  his  children,  patiently,  conscien 
tiously.  But  now  without  a  word  of  warning  in  popped 
this  young  whipper-snapper,  turning  the  whole  house  up 
side  down!  Another  young  person  to  be  known,  another 
life  to  be  dug  into,  and  with  pick  and  shovel  too!  The  job 
was  far  from  pleasant.  Would  Deborah  help  him?  Not 
at  all.  She  believed  in  letting  people  alone — a  devilish 
easy  philosophy!  Still,  he  wanted  to  tell  her  at  once,  if 
only  to  stir  her  up  a  bit.  He  did  not  propose  to  bear  this 
alone!  But  Deborah  was  out  to-night.  Why  must  she 
always  be  out,  he  asked,  in  that  infernal  zoo  school?  But 
no,  it  was  not  school  to-night.  She  was  dining  out  in  some 
cafe  with  a  tall  lank  doctor  friend  of  hers.  Probably  she 
was  to  marry  him! 

"I'll  have  that  news  for  breakfast!"  Roger  smote  his 
paper  savagely.  Why  couldn't  Laura  have  waited  a  little? 
Restlessly  he  walked  the  room.  Then  he  went  into  the 
hall,  took  his  hat  and  a  heavy  stick  which  he  used  for 
his  night  rambles,  and  walked  off  through  the  neighbor 
hood.  It  was  the  first  Saturday  evening  of  Spring,  and  on 
those  quiet  downtown  streets  he  met  couples  strolling  by. 
A  tall  thin  lad  and  a  buxom  girl  went  into  a  cheap  apart 
ment  building  laughing  gaily  to  themselves,  and  Roger 
thought  of  Laura.  A  group  of  young  Italians  passed, 
humming  "Trovatore,"  and  it  put  him  in  mind  of  the  time 
when  he  had  ushered  at  the  opera.  Would  Laura's  young 
man  be  willing  to  usher?  More  like  him  to  tango  down  the 
aisle! 

He  reached  Washington  Square  feeling  tired  but  even 
more  restless  than  before.  He  climbed  to  the  top,  of  a 
motor  'bus,  and  on  the  lurching  ride  uptown  he  darkly 
reflected  that  times  had  changed.  He  thought  of  the 
Avenue  he  had  known,  with  its  long  lines  of  hansom  cabs, 
its  dashing  broughams  and  coupe's  with  jingling  harness, 
liveried  footmen,  everything  sprucely  up-to-date.  How 
the  horses  had  added  to  the  town.  But  they  were  gone. 


HIS  FAMILY  25 

and  in  their  place  were  these  great  cats,  these  purring 
motors,  sliding  softly  by  the  'bus.  Roger  had  swift 
glimpses  down  into  lighted  limousines.  In  one  a  big  rich 
looking  chap  with  a  beard  had  a  dressy  young  woman  in 
his  arms.  Lord,  how  he  was  hugging  her!  Laura  would 
have  a  motor  like  that,  kisses  like  that,  a  life  like  that! 
She  was  the  kind  to  go  it  hard!  Ahead  as  far  as  he  could 
see  was  a  dark  rolling  torrent  of  cars,  lights  gleaming  by 
the  thousand.  A  hubbub  of  gay  voices,  cries  and  little 
shrieks  of  laughter  mingled  with  the  blare  of  horns.  He 
looked  at  huge  shop  windows  softly  lighted  with  displays 
of  bedrooms  richly  furnished,  of  gorgeous  women's  apparel, 
silks  and  lacy  filmy  stuffs.  And  to  Roger,  in  his  mood  of 
anxious  premonition,  these  bedroom  scenes  said  plainly, 

"O  come,  all  ye  faithful  wives!  Come  let  us  adore  him, 
and  deck  ourselves  to  please  his  eye,  to  catch  his  eye,  to 
hold  his  eye!  For  marriage  is  a  game  these  days!" 

Yes,  Laura  would  be  a  spender,  a  spender  and  a  speeder 
too!  How  much  money  had  he,  that  chap?  And  damn 
him,  what  had  he  in  his  past?  How  Roger  hated  the  very 
thought  of  poking  into  another  man's  life!  Poking  where 
nobody  wan  ted  him!  He  felt  desperately  alone.  To-night 
they  were  dancing,  he  recalled,  not  at  a  party  in  some 
body's  home,  but  in  some  flashy  public  place  where  girls 
of  her  kind  and  fancy  women  gaily  mixed  together!  How 
mixed  the  whole  city  was  getting,  he  thought,  how  mad 
and  strange,  gone  out  of  its  mind,  this  city  of  his  children's 
lives  crowding  in  upon  him! 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  breakfasted  with  Deborah  late  on  Sunday  morning. 
He  had  come  down  at  the  usual  hour  despite  his  long 
tramp  of  the  previous  night,  for  he  wanted  to  tell  her  the 
news  and  talk  it  all  out  before  Laura  came  down — because 
Deborah,  he  hadn't  a  doubt,  with  her  woman's  curiosity 
had  probed  deep  into  Laura's  affairs  in  the  many  long 
talks  they  had  had  in  her  room.  He  had  often  heard 
them  there.  And  so,  as  he  waited  and  waited  and  still 
his  daughter  did  not  come,  Roger  grew  distinctly  annoyed; 
and  when  at  last  she  did  appear,  his  greeting  was  per 
functory: 

"  What  kept  you  out  so  late  last  night?" 

"Oh,  I  was  having  a  very  good  time,"  said  Deborah 
contentedly.  She  poured  herself  some  coffee.  "I've 
always  wanted,"  she  went  on,  "to  see  Laura  really  puz 
zled—downright  flabbergasted.  And  I  saw  her  just  like 
that  last  night." 

Roger  looked  up  with  a  jerk  of  his  head: 

"You  and  Laura — together  last  night?" 

"Exactly — on  the  Astor  Roof."  At  her  father's  glare 
of  astonishment  a  look  of  quiet  relish  came  over  her  mobile 
features.  Her  wide  lips  twitched  a  little.  "Well,  why 
not? "  she  asked  him.  "I'm  quite  a  dancer  down  at  school. 
And  last  night  with  Allan  Baird — we  were  dining  to 
gether,  you  know — he  proposed  we  go  somewhere  and 
dance.  He's  a  perfectly  awful  dancer,  and  so  I  held 
out  as  long  as  I  could.  But  he  insisted  and  I  gave  in, 
though  I  much  prefer  the  theater." 

"Well!"  breathed  Roger  softly.  "So  you  hoof  it  with 
the  rest!"  His  expression  was  startled  and  intent.  Would 

26 


HIS  FAMILY  27 

he  ever  get  to  know  these  girls?  "Well,"  he  added  with 
a  sigh,  "I  suppose  you  know  what  you're  about." 

"Oh  no,  I  don't,"  she  answered.  "I  never  know  what 
Pm  about.  If  you  always  do,  you  miss  so  much — you  get 
into  a  solemn  habit  of  trying  nothing  till  you're  sure.  But 
to  return  to  Laura.  As  we  came  gaily  down  the  room  we 
ran  right  into  her,  you  see.  That's  how  Allan  dances. 
And  when  we  collided,  I  smiled  at  her  sweetly  and  said, 
1  Why,  hello,  dearie — you  here  too? ' "  And  Deborah  sipped 
her  coffee.  "I  have  never  believed  that  the  lower  jaw  of  a 
well-bred  girl  could  actually  drop  open.  But  Laura's 
did.  With  a  good  strong  light,  Allan  told  me,  he  could 
have  examined  her  tonsils  for  her.  Rather  a  disgusting 
thought.  You  see  until  she  saw  me  there,  poor  Laura 
had  me  so  thoroughly  placed — my  school-marm  job,  my 
tastes  and  habits,  everything,  all  cut  and  dried.  She  has 
never  once  come  to  my  school,  and  in  every  talk  we've 
ever  had  there  has  always  been  some  perfectly  good  and 
absorbing  reason  why  we  should  talk  about  Laura  alone." 

"There  is  now,"  said  her  father.  He  was  in  no  mood 
for  tomfoolery.  His  daughter  saw  it  and  smiled  a  little. 

"What  is  it?"  she  inquired.  And  then  he  let  her  have 
it! 

"Laura  wants  to  get  married,"  he  snapped. 

Deborah  caught  her  breath  at  that,  and  an  eager  ex 
cited  expression  swept  over  her  attractive  face.  She 
had  leaned  forward  suddenly. 

"Father!  No!  Which  one?"  she  asked.  "Tell  me! 
Is  it  Harold  Sloane?" 

"It  is." 

"Oh,  dad."  She  sank  back  in  her  chair.  "Oh,  dad," 
she  repeated. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Sloane?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing — it's  all  right — " 

"It  is,  eh?  How  do  you  know  it  is?"  His  anxious  eyes 
were  still  upon  hers,  and  he  saw  she  was  thinking  fast  and 


28  HIS  FAMILY 

hard  and  shutting  him  completely  out.  And  it  irritated 
him.  "What  do  you  know  of  this  fellow  Sloane?'' 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing — " 

"Nothing!  Humph!  Then  why  do  you  sit  here  and 
say  it's  all  right?  Don't  talk  like  a  fool!"  he  exclaimed. 
He  waited,  but  she  said  no  more,  and  Roger's  exasperation 
increased.  "He  has  money  enough  apparently — -and 
they'll  spend  it  like  March  hares!" 

Deborah  looked  up  at  him: 

"What  did  Laura  tell  you,  dear?" 

"Not  very  much.  I'm  only  her  father.  She  had  a 
dinner  and  dance  on  her  mind." 

But  Deborah  pressed  her  questions  and  he  gave  her 
brief  replies. 

"Well,  what  shall  we  do  about  it?"  he  asked. 

''  Nothing — until  we  know  something  more."  Roger 
regarded  her  fiercely. 

"Why  don't  you  go  up  and  talk  to  her,  then?" 

"She's  asleep  yet—" 

"Never  mind  if  she  is!  If  she's  going  to  marry  a  chap 
like  that  and  ruin  her  life  it's  high  time  she  was  up  for  her 
breakfast!" 

While  he  scanned  his  Sunday  paper  he  heard  Deborah 
in  the  pantry.  She  emerged  with  a  breakfast  tray  and  he 
saw  her  start  up  to  Laura's  room.  She  was  there  for  over 
an  hour.  And  when  she  returned  to  his  study,  he  saw 
her  eyes  were  shining.  How  women's  eyes  will  shine  at 
such  times,  he  told  himself  in  annoyance. 

"Well?"  he  demanded. 

"Better  leave  her  alone  to-day,"  she  advised.  "Harold 
is  coming  some  night  soon." 

"What  for?" 

"To  have  a  talk  with  you." 

Her  father  smote  his  paper.  "What  did  she  tell  you 
about  him?"  he  asked. 

"Not  much  more  than  she  told  you.     His  parents  are 


HIS  FAMILY  29 

dead — but  he  has  a  rich  widowed  aunt  in  Bridgeport  who 
adores  him.  They  mean  to  be  married  the  end  of  May. 
She  wants  a  church  wedding,  bridesmaids,  ushers — the 
wedding  reception  here,  of  course — " 

"Oh,  Lord,"  breathed  Roger  dismally. 

"We  won't  bother  you  much,  father  dear — " 

"You  will  bother  me  much/7  he  retorted.  "I  propose 
to  be  bothered — bothered  a  lot!  I'm  going  to  look  up 
this  fellow  Sloane — " 

"But  let's  leave  him  alone  for  to-day."  She  bent  over 
her  father  compassionately.  "What  a  night  you  must 
have  had,  poor  dear."  Roger  looked  up  in  grim  reproach. 

"  You  like  all  this,"  he  grunted.  "  You,  a  grown  woman, 
a  teacher  too." 

"I  wonder  if  I  do,"  she  said.  "I  guess  I'm  a  queer  per 
son,  dad,  a  curious  family  mixture — of  Laura  and  Edith 
and  mother  and  you,  with  a  good  deal  of  myself  thrown 
in.  But  it  feels  rather  good  to  be  mixed,  don't  you  think? 
Let's  stay  mixed  as  long  as  we  can — and  keep  together 
the  family." 

That  afternoon,  to  distract  him,  Deborah  took  her 
father  to  a  concert  in  Carnegie  Hall.  She  had  often  urged 
him  to  go  of  late,  but  despite  his  liking  for  music  Roger 
had  refused  before,  simply  because  it  was  a  change.  But 
why  balk  at  going  anywhere  now,  when  Laura  was  up  to 
such  antics  at  home? 

"Do  you  mind  climbing  up  to  the  gallery?"  Deborah 
asked  as  they  entered  the  hall. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  curtly  answered.  He  did  mind  it  very 
much! 

"Then  we'll  go  to  the  very  top,"  she  said.  "It's  a  long 
climb  but  I  want  you  to  see  it.  It's  so  different  up 
there." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  he  replied.  And  as  they  made  the 
slow  ascent,  pettishly  he  wondered  why  Deborah  must 


30  HIS  FAMILY 

always  be  so  eager  for  queer  places.  Galleries,  zoo  schools, 
tenement  slums — why  not  take  a  two  dollar  seat  in  life? 

Deborah  seated  him  far  down  in  the  front  of  the  great 
gallery,  over  at  the  extreme  right,  and  from  here  they 
could  look  back  and  up  at  a  huge  dim  arena  of  faces. 

"Now  watch  them  close,"  she  whispered.  "See  what 
the  music  does  to  them." 

As  the  symphony  began  below  the  faces  all  grew  motion 
less.  And  as  the  music  cast  its  spell,  the  anxious  ruffled 
feelings  which  had  been  with  Roger  all  that  day  little  by 
little  were  dispelled,  and  soon  his  imagination  began  to 
work  upon  this  scene.  He  saw  many  familiar  American 
types.  He  felt  he  knew  what  they  had  been  doing  on  Sun 
days  only  a  few  years  before.  After  church  they  had 
eaten  large  Sunday  dinners.  Then  some  had  napped  and 
some  had  walked  and  some  had  gone  to  Sunday  school. 
At  night  they  had  had  cold  suppers,  and  afterwards  some 
had  gone  back  to  church;  while  others,  as  in  Roger's  house 
in  the  days  when  Judith  was  alive,  had  gathered  around  the 
piano  for  hymns.  Young  men  callers,  friends  of  their 
daughters,  had  joined  in  the  family  singing.  Yes,  some 
of  these  people  had  been  like  that.  To  them,  a  few  short 
years  ago,  a  concert  on  the  Sabbath  would  have  seemed  a 
sacrilege.  He  could  almost  hear  from  somewhere  the  echo 
of  "Abide  With  Me." 

But  over  this  memory  of  a  song  rose  now  the  surging 
music  of  Tschaikovsky's  "Pathetique."  And  the  yearn 
ings  and  fierce  hungers  in  this  tumultuous  music  swept 
all  the  hymns  from  Roger's  mind.  Once  more  he 
watched  the  gallery,  and  this  time  he  became  aware  that 
more  than  half  were  foreigners.  Out  of  the  mass  from 
every  side  individual  faces  emerged,  swarthy,  weird,  and 
staring  hungrily  into  space.  And  to  Roger  the  whole 
shadowy  place,  the  very  air,  grew  pregnant,  charged  with 
all  these  inner  lives  bound  together  in  this  mood,  this 
mystery  that  had  swept  over  them  all,  immense  and 


HIS  FAMILY  31 

formless,  baffling,  this  furious  demanding  and  this  blind 
wistful  groping  which  he  himself  had  known  so  well, 
ever  since  his  wife  had  died  and  he  had  lost  his  faith  in 
God.  What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all  if  life  were  nothing 
but  a  start,  and  there  were  nothing  but  the  grave? 

"You  will  live  on  in  our  children's  lives." 

He  glanced  around  at  Deborah.  Was  she  so  certain,  so 
serene?  "What  do  I  know  of  her?"  he  asked.  "Little 
or  nothing/'  he  sadly  replied.  And  he  tried  to  piece  to 
gether  from  things  she  had  told  him  her  life  as  it 
had  passed  him  by.  Had  there  been  no  questionings,  no 
sharp  disillusionments?  There  must  have  been.  He  re 
called  irritabilities,  small  acts  and  exclamations  of  impa 
tience,  boredom,  "blues."  And  as  he  watched  her  he  grew 
sure  that  his  daughter's  existence  had  been  like  his  own. 
Despite  its  different  setting,  its  other  aims  and  visions,  it 
had  been  a  mere  beginning,  a  feeling  for  a  foothold,  a  search 
for  light  and  happiness.  And  Deborah  seemed  to  him 
still  a  child.  "How  far  will  you  go?"  he  wondered. 

Although  he  was  still  watching  her  even  after  the  music 
had  ceased,  she  did  not  notice  him  for  a  time.  Then  she 
turned  to  him  slowly  with  a  smile. 

"Well?    What  did  you  see?"  she  asked. 

"I  wasn't  looking,"  he  replied. 

"Why,  dearie,"  she  retorted.  "Where's  that  imagina 
tion  of  yours?" 

"It  was  with  you,"  he  answered.  "Tell  me  what  you 
were  thinking." 

And  still  under  the  spell  of  the  music,  Deborah  said  to 
her  father, 

"I  was  thinking  of  hungry  people — millions  of  them, 
now,  this  minute — not  only  here  but  in  so  many  places — 
concerts,  movies,  libraries.  Hungry,  oh,  for  everything 
— life,  its  beauty,  all  it  means.  And  I  was  thinking  this 
is  youth — no  matter  how  old  they  happen  to  be — and 
that  to  feed  it  we  have  schools.  I  was  thinking  how 


32  HIS  FAMILY 

little  we've  done  as  yet,  and  of  all  that  we're  so  sure  to  do 
in  the  many,  many  years  ahead.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  " 
she  squeezed  his  hand. 

" Welcome  back  to  school,"  she  said,  "back  into  the 
hungry  army  of  youth!  .  .  .  Sh-h-h!" 

Again  the  music  had  begun.  And  sitting  by  her  side  he 
wondered  whether  it  was  because  she  knew  that  Laura's 
affair  had  made  him  feel  old  that  Deborah  had  brought 
him  here. 

They  went  to  Edith's  for  supper. 

The  Cunninghams'  apartment  was  on  the  west  side, 
well  uptown.  It  was  not  the  neighborhood  which  Edith 
would  have  chosen,  for  nearly  all  the  nice  people  she  knew 
lived  east  of  the  park.  But  rents  were  somewhat  lower 
here  and  there  was  at  least  an  abundance  of  fresh  air  for  her 
family.  Edith  had  found  that  her  days  were  full  of  these 
perplexing  decisions.  It  was  all  very  simple  to  resolve 
that  her  children  be  old-fashioned,  normal,  wholesome, 
nice.  But  then  she  looked  into  the  city — into  schools 
and  kindergartens,  clothes  and  friends  and  children's 
parties,  books  and  plays.  And  through  them  all  to  her 
dismay  she  felt  conflicting  currents,  clashes  between  old 
and  new.  She  felt  New  York.  And  anxiously  she  asked 
herself ,  "  What  is  old-fashioned?  What  is  normal?  What 
is  wholesome?  What  is  nice?  "  Cautiously  she  made  her 
way,  testing  and  comparing,  trying  small  experiments. 
Often  sharply  she  would  draw  in  her  horns.  She  had 
struck  something  " common!"  And  she  knew  all  this  was 
nothing  compared  to  the  puzzles  that  lay  ahead.  For 
from  her  friend,  Madge  Deering,  whose  girls  were  well 
along  in  their  'teens,  she  heard  of  deeper  problems.  The 
girls  were  so  inquisitive.  Dauntlessly  Madge  was  facing 
each  month  the  most  disturbing  questions.  Thank 
Heaven,  Edith  had  only  one  daughter.  Sons  were  not 
quite  so  baffling. 


HIS  FAMILY  33 

So  she  had  groped  her  way  along. 

When  her  father  and  Deborah  arrived,  placidly  she 
asked  them  what  they  had  been  doing.  And  when  she 
heard  that  they  had  been  at  a  concert  on  the  Sabbath, 
though  this  was  far  from  old-fashioned  and  something 
she  would  not  have  done  herself,  it  did  not  bother  her 
half  so  much  as  the  fact  that  Hannah,  the  Irish  nurse, 
had  slapped  little  Tad  that  afternoon.  She  had  never 
known  Hannah  to  do  it  before.  Could  it  be  that  the 
girl  was  tired  or  sick?  Perhaps  she  needed  a  few  days  off. 
"I  must  have  a  talk  with  her,"  Edith  thought,  "as  soon 
as  father  and  Deborah  go." 

Roger  always  liked  to  come  here.  Say  what  you  would 
about  Edith's  habit  of  keeping  too  closely  to  her  home, 
the  children  to  whom  she  had  devoted  herself  were  a  fine, 
clean,  happy  lot.  Here  were  new  lives  in  his  family, 
glorious  fresh  beginnings.  He  sat  on  the  floor  with  her 
three  boys,  watching  the  patient  efforts  of  George  to  har 
ness  his  perturbed  white  rat  to  Tad's  small  fire  engine. 
George  was  a  lank  sprawling  lad  of  fourteen,  all  legs  and 
arms  and  elbows,  with  rumpled  hair  and  freckled  face, 
a  quick  bright  smile  and  nice  brown  eyes — frank,  simple, 
understandable  eyes.  All  but  one  of  Edith's  children  were 
boys,  and  boys  were  a  blessed  relief  to  a  man  who  had 
three  grown-up  daughters. 

And  while  Roger  watched  them,  with  a  gentle  glow  of 
anticipation  he  waited  for  what  should  follow,  when  as  had 
been  already  arranged  Deborah  should  break  to  her  sister 
the  news  of  Laura's  engagement.  And  he  was  not  dis 
appointed.  The  change  in  Edith  was  something  tremen 
dous.  Until  now  so  quietly  self-absorbed,  at  the  news  that 
Laura  was  to  be  married  instantly  she  was  all  alert.  Sit 
ting  there  in  the  midst  of  her  children  and  facing  a  time  of 
agony  only  a  few  weeks  ahead  which  would  add  one  more 
to  her  family,  Edith's  pretty  florid  face  grew  flushed  and 
radiant  as  she  exclaimed, 


34  HIS  FAMILY 

"What  a  perfectly  wonderful  thing  for  Laura!  Now 
if  only  she  can  have  a  child!" 

Her  questions  followed  thick  and  fast,  and  with  them 
her  thoughts  of  what  should  be  done.  Bruce  must  look 
up  this  suitor  at  once.  Bruce  demurred  stoutly  but  with 
out  avail.  She  eagerly  questioned  her  sister  as  to  Laura's 
plans  for  the  wedding,  but  plainly  she  considered  that 
Deborah  was  no  woman  to  give  her  the  full  information 
she  wanted.  She  must  see  Laura  herself  at  once.  For 
though  she  had  thoroughly  disapproved  of  the  gay 
helter-skelter  existence  of  her  youngest  sister,  still  Laura 
was  now  to  be  married,  and  this  made  all  the  differ 
ence. 

Just  before  Roger  and  Deborah  left,  Edith  drew  her 
father  aside,  and  with  a  curious  concern  and  pity  in  her 
voice,  she  said, 

"  I'm  so  sorry  I  shan't  be  able  to  help  you  with  the  wed 
ding,  dear,  and  make  it  the  sweet  old-fashioned  kind  that 
mother  would  have  wanted.  Of  course  there's  Deborah, 
she'll  be  there.  But  her  head  is  so  full  of  new  ideas.  I'm 
afraid  she  may  find  the  house  rather  a  burden  after  Laura 
has  gone  away."  Edith  gave  a  worried  little  sigh.  "I'll 
be  so  glad,"  she  added,  "when  we  get  that  place  in  Morris- 
town.  We'll  want  you  out  there  often,  and  for  good  long 
visits  too.  You  may  even  find  you'll  care  to  try  staying 
there  with  us  for  a  while." 

Roger  scowled  and  thanked  her.  She  had  given  him  a 
shock  of  alarm. 

"So  she  thinks  that  Deborah  will  find  the  housekeeping 
too  hard,"  he  reflected  anxiously.  And  as  he  walked  home 
with  his  daughter,  he  kept  glancing  at  her  face,  which 
for  all  its  look  of  quiet  had  so  much  tensity  beneath.  She 
had  packed  her  life  so  full  of  school.  What  if  she  wanted 
to  give  up  their  home?  "She'll  try,  of  course,  she'll 
try  her  best — but  she'll  find  it  too  much  of  an  added 
strain."  And  again  he  felt  that  sickening  dread.  Deb- 


HIS  FAMILY  35 

orah  said  nothing.     He  felt  as  though  they  had  drifted 
apart. 

And  at  night  in  his  bed,  as  Roger  stared  up  at  the 
beetling  cliff  of  apartment  windows  just  outside,  drearily 
he  asked  himself  how  it  would  feel  to  live  like  that. 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  afternoon  a  few  days  later  Roger  was  riding  in  the 
park.  He  rode  "  William,"  a  large  lazy  cob  who  as  he  ad 
vanced  in  age  had  so  subtly  and  insidiously  slackened  his 
pace  from  a  trot  to  a  jog  that  Roger  barely  noticed  how 
slowly  he  was  riding.  As  he  rode  along  he  liked  to  watch 
the  broad  winding  bridle  path  with  its  bobbing  pro 
cession  of  riders  that  kept  appearing  before  him  under  the 
tall  spreading  trees.  Though  he  knew  scarcely  anyone 
by  name,  he  was  a  familiar  figure  here  and  he  recognized 
scores  of  faces.  To  many  men  he  nodded  at  passing,  and 
to  not  a  few  alluring  young  dames,  ardent  creatures  with 
bright  eyes  who  gave  him  smiles  of  greeting,  Roger 
gravely  raised  his  hat.  One  was  "The  Silver  Lady"  in  a 
Broadway  musical  show,  but  he  thought  she  was  "one  of 
the  Newport  crowd."  He  liked  to  make  shrewd  guesses 
like  that.  There  were  so  many  kinds  of  people  here. 
There  were  stout  anxious  ladies  riding  for  figures  and  lean 
morose  gentlemen  riding  for  health.  There  were  joyous 
care-free  girls,  chatting  and  laughing  merrily.  There  were 
some  gallant  foreigners,  and  there  were  riding  masters, 
and  Roger  could  not  tell  them  apart.  There  were  mad 
boys  from  the  Squadron  who  rode  at  a  furious  canter,  and 
there  were  groups  of  children,  eager  and  flushed,  excited 
and  gay,  with  stolid  grooms  behind  them.  The  path  in 
several  places  ran  close  beside  the  main  road  of  the  park, 
and  with  the  coming  of  the  dusk  this  road  took  on  deep 
purple  hues  and  glistened  with  reflections  from  countless 
yellow  motor  eyes.  And  from  the  polished  limousines, 
sumptuous  young  women  smiled  out  upon  the  riders. 

At  least  so  Roger  saw  this  life.    And  after  those  bleak 


HIS  FAMILY  37 

lonely  years  confronted  by  eternity,  it  was  good  to  come 
here  and  forget,  to  feel  himself  for  the  moment  a  part  of 
the  thoughtless  gaiety,  the  ease  and  luxury  of  the  town. 
Here  he  was  just  on  the  edge  of  it  all.  Often  as  a  couple 
passed  he  would  wonder  what  they  were  doing  that  night. 
In  the  riding  school  where  he  kept  his  horse,  it  was  a  lazy 
pleasure  to  have  the  English  " valet"  there  pull  off  his 
boots  and  breeches — though  if  anyone  had  told  him  so, 
Roger  would  have  denied  it  with  indignation  and  surprise. 
For  was  he  not  an  American? 

It  had  been  a  wonderful  tonic,  a  great  idea  of  Laura's, 
this  forcing  him  up  here  to  ride.  In  one  of  her  affectionate 
moods,  just  after  a  sick  spell  he  had  been  through,  his 
gay  capricious  daughter  had  insisted  that  he  have  his 
horse  brought  down  from  the  mountains.  She  had  prom 
ised  to  ride  with  him  herself,  and  she  had  done  so — for  a 
week.  Since  then  he  had  often  met  her  here  with  one  of  her 
many  smart  young  men.  What  a  smile  of  greeting  would 
flash  on  her  face — when  Laura  happened  to  notice  him. 

He  was  thinking  of  Laura  now,  and  there  was  an  anxious 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  For  young  Sloane  was  coming  to  dinner 
to-night.  What  was  he  going  to  say  to  the  fellow?  Bruce 
had  learned  that  Sloane  played  polo,  owned  and  drove  a 
racing  car  and  was  well  liked  in  his  several  clubs.  But 
what  about  women  and  his  past?  Edith  had  urged  her 
father  to  go  through  the  lad's  life  with  a  fine  tooth  comb, 
and  if  he  should  find  anything  there  to  kick  up  no  end  of 
a  row  for  the  honor  of  the  family.  All  of  which  was  noth 
ing  but  words,  reflected  Roger  pettishly.  It  all  came  to 
this,  that  he  had  a  most  ticklish  evening  ahead!  On  the 
path  as  a  rider  greeted  him,  his  reply  was  a  dismal  frown. 

Laura's  suitor  arrived  at  six  o'clock.  In  his  study  Roger 
heard  the  bell,  listened  a  moment  with  beating  heart,  then 
raised  himself  heavily  from  his  chair  and  went  into  the 
hallway. 


38  HIS  FAMILY 

"  Ah,  yes!  It's  you!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  nervous  cor 
diality.  "  Come  in,  my  boy,  come  right  in!  Here,  let  me 
help  you  with  your  coat.  I  don't  know  just  where  Laura 
is.  Ahem!"  He  violently  cleared  his  throat.  " Suppose 
while  we're  waiting  we  have  a  smoke."  He  kept  it  up 
back  into  his  den.  There  the  suitor  refused  a  cigar  and 
carefully  lit  a  cigarette.  Roger  noticed  again  how  young 
the  chap  was,  and  marriage  seemed  so  ridiculous!  All  this 
feverish  trouble  was  for  something  so  unreal! 

"Well,  sir,"  the  candidate  blurted  forth,  "I  guess  I'd 
better  come  right  to  the  point.  Mr.  Gale,  I  want  to  marry 
your  daughter." 

•"  Laura?" 

"Yes."  Roger  cursed  himself.  Why  had  he  asked, 
"Laura?"  Of  course  it  was  Laura!  Would  this  cub  be 
wanting  Deborah? 

"Well,  my  boy,"  he  said  thickly.  "I — I  wish  I  knew 
you  better." 

"So  do  I,  sir.  Suppose  we  begin."  The  youth  took  a 
quick  pull  at  his  cigarette.  He  waited,  stirred  nervously 
in  his  seat.  "You'll  have  some  questions  to  ask,  I  sup 
pose — " 

"Yes,  there  are  questions."  Roger  had  risen  mechanic 
ally  and  was  slowly  walking  the  room.  He  threw  out  short 
gruff  phrases.  "I'm  not  interested  in  your  past — I  don't 
care  about  digging  into  a  man — I  never  have  and  I  never 
will — except  as  it  might  affect  my  daughter.  That's  the 
main  question,  I  suppose.  Can  you  make  her  happy?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Sloane,  decidedly.  Roger  gave  him 
a  glance  of  displeasure. 

"That's  a  large  order,  young  man,"  he  rejoined. 

"Then  let's  take  it  in  sections,"  the  youngster  replied. 
Confound  his  boyish  assurance!  "To  begin  with,"  he  was 
saying,  "I  rather  think  I  have  money  enough.  We'd 
better  go  into  that,  hadn't  we?" 

"Yes,"  said  Roger  indifferently.     "We  might  as  well 


HIS  FAMILY  39 

go  into  it."  Of  course  the  chap  had  money  enough. 
He  was  a  money  maker.  You  could  hear  it  in  his  voice; 
you  could  see  it  in  his  jaw,  in  his  small  aggressive  blonde 
moustache.  Now  he  was  telling  briefly  of  his  rich  aunt  in 
Bridgeport,  of  the  generous  start  she  had  given  him,  his 
work  downtown,  his  income. 

"Twenty-two  thousand  this  year/7  he  said.  "We  can 
live  on  that  all  right,  I  guess." 

"You  won't  starve,"  was  the  dry  response.  Roger 
walked  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then  turned  abruptly  on 
yoimg  Sloane. 

"Look  here,  young  man,  I  don't  want  to  dig,"  he  con 
tinued  very  huskily.  "But  I  know  little  or  nothing  of 
what  may  be  behind  you.  I  don't  care  to  ask  you  about 
it  now — unless  it  can  make  trouble." 

"It  can't  make  trouble."  At  this  answer,  low  but 
sharp,  Roger  wheeled  and  shot  a  glance  into  those  clear 
and  twinkling  eyes.  And  his  own  eyes  gleamed  with 
pain.  Laura  had  been  such  a  little  thing  in  the  days  when 
she  had  been  his  pet,  the  da}^s  when  he  had  known  her 
well.  What  could  he  do  about  it?  This  was  only  the  usual 
thing.  But  he  felt  suddenly  sick  of  life. 

"How  soon  do  you  want  to  get  married?"  he  demanded 
harshly. 

"Next  month,  if  we  can." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Abroad,"  said  Sloane.  Roger  caught  at  this  topic 
as  at  a  straw.  Soon  they  were  talking  of  the  trip,  and  the 
tension  slackened  rapidly.  He  had  never  been  abroad 
himself  but  had  always  dreamed  of  going  there.  With 
maps  and  books  of  travel  Judith  and  he  had  planned  it  out. 
In  imagination  they  had  lived  in  London  and  Paris,  Munich 
and  Rome,  always  in  queer  old  lodgings  looking  on  quaint 
crooked  streets.  He  had  dreamed  of  long  delicious  ram 
bles,  glimpses  into  queer  old  shops,  vast,  silent,  dark  ca 
thedrals.  For  Laura  how  different  it  would  be.  This 


40  HIS  FAMILY 

boy  of  hers  knew  Europe  as  a  group  of  gorgeous  new 
hotels. 

The  moment  Laura  joined  them,  her  father's  eye  was 
caught  and  held  by  the  ring  upon  her  finger.  Roger  knew 
rings,  they  were  his  hobby,  and  this  huge  yellow  solitaire 
in  its  new  and  brilliant  setting  at  once  awakened  his  dis 
like.  It  just  fitted  the  life  they  were  to  lead!  What  life? 
As  he  listened  to  his  daughter  he  kept  wondering  if 
she  were  so  sure.  Had  she  felt  no  uneasiness?  She  must 
have,  he  decided,  for  all  her  gay  excitement.  One  Laura 
in  that  smiling  face;  another  Laura  deep  inside,  doubting 
and  uncertain,  reaching  for  her  happiness,  now  elated,  now 
dismayed,  exclaiming,  "Now  at  last  I'm  starting!"  Oh, 
what  an  ignorant  child  she  was.  He  wanted  to  cry  out 
to  her,  "You'll  always  be  just  starting!  You'll  never  be 
sure,  you'll  never  be  happy,  you'll  always  be  just  beginning 
to  be!  And  the  happier  you  are,  the  more  you  will  feel 
it  is  only  a  start!  .  .  .  And  then — " 

More  and  more  his  spirit  withdrew  from  these  two  heed 
less  children.  Later  on,  when  Deborah  came,  he  barely 
noticed  her  meeting  with  Sloane.  And  through  dinner, 
while  they  talked  of  plans  for  the  wedding,  the  trip  abroad, 
still  Roger  took  no  part  at  all.  He  felt  dull  and  heavy. 
Deborah  too,  he  noticed,  after  her  first  efforts  to  be  wel 
coming  and  friendly,  had  gradually  grown  silent.  He  saw 
her  watching  Laura  with  a  mingled  look  of  affection  and 
of  whimsical  dismay.  Soon  after  dinner  she  left  them, 
and  Roger  smoked  with  the  boy  for  a  while  and  learned 
that  he  was  twenty-nine.  Both  had  grown  uneasy  and 
rather  dull  with  each  other.  It  was  a  relief  when  again 
Laura  joined  them,  dressed  to  go  out.  She  and  her  lover 
left  the  house. 

Roger  sat  motionless  for  some  time.  His  cigar  grew  cold 
unheeded.  One  of  the  sorrows  of  his  life  had  been  that 
his  only  son  had  died.  Bruce  had  been  almost  like  a  son. 
But  this  young  man  of  Laura's?  No. 


HIS  FAMILY  41 

Later  he  went  for  his  evening  walk.  And  as  though 
drawn  by  invisible  chains  he  strayed  far  down  into  the 
ghetto.  Soon  he  was  elbowing  his  way  through  a  maze 
of  uproarious  tenement  streets  as  one  who  had  been  there 
many  times.  But  he  noticed  little  around  him.  He  went 
on,  as  he  had  always  gone,  seeing  and  hearing  this  seething 
life  only  as  a  background  to  his  own  adventure.  He  reached 
his  destination.  Pushing  his  way  through  a  swarm  of 
urchins  playing  in  front  of  a  pawnshop,  he  entered  and 
was  a  long  time  inside,  and  when  he  came  out  again  at 
last  the  whole  expression  of  his  face  had  undergone  a 
striking  change.  As  one  who  had  found  the  solace  he 
needed  for  the  moment,  his  pace  unconsciously  quickened 
and  he  looked  about  him  with  brighter  eyes. 

Around  the  corner  from  his  home,  he  went  into  a  small 
jewelry  shop,  a  remnant  of  the  town  of  the  past.  There 
were  no  customers  in  the  place,  and  the  old  Galician 
jeweler  sat  at  the  back  playing  solitaire.  At  sight  of 
Roger  he  arose;  and  presently  in  a  small  back  room, 
beneath  the  glare  of  a  powerful  lamp,  the  two  were  study 
ing  the  ring  which  Roger  had  found  in  the  ghetto  that 
night.  It  was  plain,  just  a  thin  worn  band  of  gold  with 
an  emerald  by  no  means  large;  but  the  setting  was  old 
and  curious,  and  personal,  distinctive.  Somebody  over 
in  Europe  had  worked  on  it  long  and  lovingly.  Now  as 
the  Galician  gently  rubbed  and  polished  and  turned  the 
ring  this  way  and  that,  the  light  revealed  crude  tiny  fig 
ures,  a  man  and  a  woman  under  a  tree.  And  was  that  a 
vine  or  a  serpent?  They  studied  it  long  and  absorbedly. 

At  home,  up  in  his  bedroom,  Roger  opened  a  safe  which 
stood  in  one  corner,  took  out  a  large  shallow  tray  and  sat 
down  with  it  by  his  lamp.  A  strange  array  of  rings  was 
there,  small  and  delicate,  huge,  bizarre;  great  signet  rings 
and  poison  rings,  love  tokens,  charms  and  amulets,  rings 
which  had  been  worn  by  wives,  by  mistresses,  by  favorite 
slaves  and  by  young  girls  in  convents;  rings  with  the  Ma- 


42  HIS  FAMILY 

donna  and  rings  with  many  other  saints  graven  on  large 
heavy  stones;  rings  French  and  Russian,  Polish,  Italian, 
Spanish,  Syrian.  Some  were  many  centuries  old.  In 
nine  shallow  metal  trays  they  filled  the  safe  in  Roger's 
room.  Although  its  money  value  was  small,  the  Gale 
collection  was  well  known  to  a  scattered  public  of  con 
noisseurs,  and  Roger  took  pride  in  showing  it.  But  what 
had  always  appealed  to  him  most  was  the  romance,  the 
mystery,  stored  up  in  these  old  talismans  that  had  lived 
so  many  ages,  travelled  through  so  many  lands,  decked 
so  many  fingers.  Roger  had  found  every  one  of  them  in 
the  pawnshops  of  New  York.  What  new  recruits  to  Amer 
ica  had  brought  them  here  and  pawned  them?  From  what 
old  cities  had  they  come?  What  passions  o£  love  and  jeal 
ousy,  of  hatred,  faith,  devotion  were  in  this  glittering  ar 
ray?  Roger's  own  love  affair  had  been  deep,  but  quiet 
and  even  and  happy.  All  the  wild  adventures,  the  might- 
have-beens  in  his  sex  life,  were  gathered  in  these  dusky 
trays  with  their  richly  colored  glints  of  light. 

Of  his  daughters,  Laura  had  been  the  one  most  inter 
ested  in  his  rings,  and  so  he  thought  of  Laura  now  as  he 
placed  in  the  tray  the  new  ring  he  had  bought,  the  one 
he  would  have  liked  for  her.  But  a  vague  uneasiness  filled 
his  mind,  for  he  knew  she  had  the  same  craving  as  he  for 
what  gleamed  out  of  these  somber  trays.  The  old  Galician 
jeweler  had  long  been  quite  a  friend  of  hers,  die  had  often 
dropped  in  at  his  shop  to  ask  him  curious  questions  about 
his  women  patrons.  And  it  was  just  this  side  of  him  that 
Roger  did  not  care  for.  So  many  of  those  women  were 
from  a  dubious  glittering  world,  and  the  old  Galician  took 
a  wierd  vicarious  joy  in  many  of  the  gay  careers  into  which 
he  sent  his  beloved  rings,  his  brooches,  earrings,  neck 
laces,  his  clasps  and  diamond  garters.  And  Laura  loved 
to  make  him  talk.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  her  father's  child, 
a  part  of  himself.  He,  too,  had  had  his  yearnings,  his 
burning  curiosities,  his  youthful  ventures  into  the  town. 


HIS  FAMILY  43 

"You  will  live  on  in  our  children's  lives."  With  her  in 
heritance  what  would  she  do?  Would  she  stop  halfway 
as  he  had  done,  or  would  she  throw  all  caution  aside  and 
let  the  flames  within  her  rise? 

He  heard  a  step  in  the  doorway,  and  Deborah  stood 
there  smiling. 

"A  new  one?"  she  inquired.  He  nodded,  and  she  bent 
over  the  tray.  "Poor  father,"  Deborah  murmured. 
"I  saw  you  eyeing  Laura's  engagement  ring  at  dinner 
to-night.  It  wasn't  like  this  one,  was  it?"  He  scowled: 

"I  don't  like  what  I  see  ahead  of  her.  Nor  do  you," 
he  said.  "Be  honest."  She  looked  at  him  perplexedly. 

"We  can't  stop  it,  can  we?  And  even  if  we  could," 
she  said,  "I'.i  not  quite  sure  I'd  want  to.  It's  her 
love  affair,  not  yours  or  mine — grown  out  of  a  life  she  made 
for  herself — curious,  eager,  thrilled  by  it  all — and  in  the 
center  of  her  soul  the  deep  glad  growing  certainty,  'I'm 
going  to  be  a  beautiful  woman — I  myself,  I,  Laura  Gale! ' 
Oh,  you  don't  know — nor  do  I.  And  so  she  felt  her  way 
along — eagerly,  hungrily,  making  mistakes — and  you  and 
I  left  her  to  do  it  alone.  I'm  afraid  we  both  rather  neg 
lected  her,  dad,"  Deborah  ended  sadly.  "And  all  we  can 
do  now,  I  think,  is  to  give  her  the  kind  of  wedding  she 
wants." 

Roger  started  to  speak  but  hesitated. 

"What  is  it?"  she  inquired. 

"Queer,"  he  answered  gruffly,  "how  a  man  can  neglect 
his  children — as  I  have  done,  as  I  do  still — when  the  one 
thing  he  wants  most  in  life  is  to  see  each  one  of  'em  happy.'1' 


CHAPTER  VI 

ROGER  soon  grew  accustomed  to  seeing  young  Sloane 
about  the  house.  They  could  talk  together  more  easily, 
and  he  began  to  call  him  Harold.  Harold  asked  him  with 
Laura  to  lunch  at  the  Ritz  to  meet  the  aunt  from  Bridge 
port,  a  lady  excessively  stout  and  profound.  But  that 
ended  the  formalities.  It  had  all  been  so  much  easier 
than  Roger  had  expected.  So,  in  its  calm  sober  fashion, 
the  old  house  took  into  its  life  this  new  member,  these  new 
plans,  and  the  old  seemed  stronger  for  the  new — for 
Laura  and  Edith  and  Deborah  drew  together  closer  than 
they  had  been  in  many  years.  But  only  because  they  felt 
themselves  on  the  eve  of  a  still  deeper  and  more  lasting 
separation,  as  the  family  of  Roger  Gale  divided  and  went 
different  ways.  At  times  he  noticed  it  sadly.  Laura,  who 
had  scarcely  ever  been  home  for  dinner,  now  spent  many 
evenings  here.  She  needed  her  home  for  her  wedding,  he 
thought.  Each  daughter  needed  it  now  and  then.  But 
as  the  years  wore  slowly  on,  the  seasons  when  they  needed 
it  grew  steadily  wider  and  wider  apart.  .  .  . 

Early  in  May,  when  Roger  came  home  from  his  office 
one  night  he  found  Edith's  children  in  the  house.  From 
the  hallway  he  could  hear  their  gay  excited  voices,  and 
going  into  the  dining  room  he  found  them  at  their  supper. 
Deborah  was  with  them,  and  at  once  her  father  noticed 
how  much  younger  she  appeared — as  she  always  did  with 
these  children  who  all  idolized  her  so.  She  rose  and 
followed  him  into  the  hall,  and  her  quiet  voice  had 
a  note  of  compassion. 

"  Edith's  baby  is  coming,"  she  said. 

"Good  Lord.    Is  anything  wrong?"  he  asked. 

44 


HIS  FAMILY  45 

"No,  no,  it's  all  right—" 

"But  I  thought  the  child  wasn't  due  for  three  weeks." 

"I  know,  and  poor  Edith  is  fearfully  worried.  It  has 
upset  all  her  plans.  I'd  go  up  and  see  her  if  I  were  you. 
Your  supper  is  ready;  and  if  you  like  you  can  have  it 
with  the  children." 

There  followed  a  happy  boisterous  meal,  with  much 
expectant  chatter  about  the  long  summer  so  soon  to  begin 
at  the  farm  up  in  the  mountains.  George,  whose  hair  was 
down  over  his  eyes,  rumpled  it  back  absorbedly  as  he  told 
of  a  letter  he  had  received  from  his  friend  Dave  Royce, 
Roger's  farmer,  with  whom  George  corresponded.  One 
of  the  cows  was  to  have  a  calf,  and  George  was  anxious 
to  get  there  in  time. 

"I've  never  seen  a  real  new  calf,  new  absolutely,"  he 
explained.  "And  I  want  a  look  at  this  one  the  very  min 
ute  that  he's  born.  Gee,  I  hope  we  can  get  there  in  time — " 

"Gee!  So  do  I!"  cried  Bobby  aged  nine.  And  then 
Tad,  the  chubby  three-year-old  who  had  been  intently 
watching  his  brothers,  slowly  took  the  spoon  from  his 
mouth  and  in  his  grave  sweet  baby  voice  said  very  softly, 
"Gee."  At  her  end  of  the  table,  Elizabeth,  blonde  and 
short  and  rather  plump,  frowned  and  colored  slightly. 
For  she  was  eleven  and  she  knew  there  was  something 
dark  and  shameful  about  the  way  calves  appear  in  barns. 
And  so,  with  a  quick  conscious  cough,  she  sweetly  inter 
rupted  : 

"Oh,  Aunt  Deborah!  Won't  you  please  tell  us  about — 
about—" 

"About — about,"  jeered  the  ironical  George.  "About 
what,  you  little  ninny?"  Poor  Elizabeth  blushed  desper 
ately.  She  was  neither  quick  nor  resourceful. 

"Now,  George,"  said  his  aunt  warningly. 

"Wasn't  I  talking?"  the  boy  rejoined.  "And  didn't 
Betsy  butt  right  in — without  even  a  thing  to  butt  in  about? 
About — about,"  he  jeered  again. 


46  HIS  FAMILY 

" About  Paris!"  cried  his  sister,  successful  at  last  in 
her  frantic  search  for  a  proper  topic  of  conversation. 
"Aunt  Deborah's  trip  to  Paris !" 

"How  many  times  has  she  told  it  already?"  her  brother 
replied  with  withering  scorn.  "And  anyhow,  I  was  talk 
ing  of  cows!" 

"Very  well,"  said  his  aunt,  "we'll  talk  about  cows,  some 
cows  I  saw  on  a  lovely  old  farm  in  a  little  village  over  in 
France." 

"There!"  cried  his  young  sister.  "Did  she  ever  tell 
of  that  part  of  her  trip?"  And  she  made  a  little  face  at 
her  brother. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  answered  doggedly.  "She  has  told 
about  Paris  lots  of  times — and  that  was  what  you  wanted. 
Yes,  you  did.  You  said, '  About  Paris.'  Didn't  she,  Bob?  " 

"You  bet  she  did,"  young  Bob  agreed. 

"Now,  children,  children,  what  does  it  matter?" 

"All  right,  go  ahead  with  your  barn  in  France,"  said 
George  with  patient  tolerance.  "Did  they  have  any 
Holsteins?" 

Soon  the  questions  were  popping  from  every  side,  while 
little  Tad  beamed  from  one  to  the  other.  To  Tad  it  was 
all  so  wonderful,  to  be  having  supper  away  from  home, 
to  be  here,  to  go  to  bed  upstairs,  to  take  part  perhaps  in  a 
pillow  fight.  .  .  .  And  glancing  at  the  glowing  face  and 
the  parted  lips  of  his  small  grandson  Roger  felt  a  current 
of  warm  new  life  pour  into  his  soul. 

Early  in  the  evening  he  went  up  to  Edith's  apartment. 
He  found  his  daughter  in  her  room,  looking  flushed  and 
very  tense.  He  took  her  arm  and  they  walked  for  a  time. 
A  trained  nurse  was  soaping  the  windows.  Roger  asked 
the  reason  for  this  and  was  told  that  in  case  the  baby  did 
not  come  till  morning  the  doctor  wanted  to  pull  up  the 
shades  in  order  to  work  by  daylight.  "And  neighbors  in 
New  York  are  such  cats!  You've  no  idea!"  said  Edith. 
She  looked  out  at  the  numberless  windows  crowding  close 


HIS  FAMILY  47 

about  her  home,  and  she  fairly  bristled  with  scorn.  "  Oh, 
how  I  loathe  apartments!" 

"They  seem  to  have  come  to  stay,  my  dear.  In  a  few 
years  more  New  York  will  be  a  city  without  a  house/' 
he  said.  "Only  a  palace  here  and  there."  The  thought 
flashed  in  his  mind,  "But  I  shall  be  gone." 

"Then  we'll  move  out  to  the  country!"  she  cried. 
Still  walking  the  floor  with  her  father,  she  talked  of  the 
perplexities  which  in  her  feverish  state  of  mind  had  loomed 
suddenly  enormous.  She  had  planned  everything  so 
nicely  for  the  baby  to  come  the  first  of  June,  but  now  her 
plans  were  all  upset.  She  did  not  want  the  children  here, 
it  would  make  too  much  confusion.  They  had  much 
better  go  up  to  the  mountains,  even  though  George  and 
Elizabeth  lost  their  last  few  weeks  at  school.  But  who 
could  she  find  to  take  them?  Bruce  was  simply  rushed  to 
death  with  his  new  receivership.  Laura  was  getting  her 
trousseau.  Deborah,  said  Edith,  had  time  for  nothing  on 
earth  but  school. 

"Suppose  I  take  them,"  Roger  ventured.  But  she  only 
smiled  at  this.  "My  dear,"  he  urged,  "your  nurse  will 
be  with  me,  and  when  we  arrive  there's  the  farmer's  wife." 
But  Edith  impatiently  shook  her  head.  Her  warm  bright 
eyes  seemed  to  picture  it  all,  hour  by  hour,  day  and  night, 
her  children  there  without  her. 

"You  poor  dear,"  she  told  him,  "you  haven't  the  slight 
est  idea  what  it  means.  The  summer  train  is  not  on  yet, 
and  you  have  to  change  three  times  on  the  way — with  all 
the  children — luggage,  too.  And  there  are  their  naps,  and 
all  their  meals.  You  don't  arrive  till  late  at  night.  No," 
she  decided  firmly,  "Bruce  will  simply  have  to  go."  She 
drew  a  breath  of  discomfort.  "You  go  and  talk  to  him," 
she  said. 

"I  will,  my  dear."  Roger  looked  at  his  daughter  in 
deep  concern.  Awkwardly  his  heavy  hand  touched  her 
small  plump  shoulder,  and  he  felt  the  constant  quivering 


48  HIS  FAMILY 

there.  "Now,  now,"  he  muttered,  uneasily,  "it's  going 
to  be  all  right,  you  know — "  And  at  that  she  gave  him 
a  rapid  glance  out  of  those  warm  hunted  eyes,  as  though 
to  ask,  "  What  do  you  know  of  this?  "  And  Roger  flinched 
and  turned  to  the  door. 

Bruce  was  working  at  his  desk,  with  an  old  briar  pipe 
in  his  teeth.  He  looked  up  with  a  quick  nervous  smile 
which  showed  his  dread  of  the  coming  ordeal,  but  his  voice 
had  a  carefully  casual  tone. 

"Does  she  want  me  now?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Roger.  And  he  told  of  her  plan  for  the 
children.  "I  volunteered  myself,"  he  added,  "but  she 
wouldn't  hear  to  it." 

"Oh,  my  God,  man,  you  wouldn't  do,"  said  Bruce,  in 
droll  disparagement.  "You  with  forty-nine  bottles  of 
pasteurized  milk?  Suppose  you  smashed  one?  Where'd 
you  be?  Moving  our  family  isn't  a  job;  it's  a  science,  and 
I've  got  my  degree."  He  rose  and  his  face  softened. 
"Poor  girl,  she  mustn't  worry  like  that.  I'll  run  in  and 
tell  her  I'll  do  it  myself — just  to  get  it  off  her  mind." 

He  went  to  his  wife.  And  when  he  came  back  his  dark 
features  appeared  a  little  more  drawn. 

"Poor  devil,"  thought  Roger,  "he's  scared  to  death — 
just  as  I  used  to  be  myself." 

"Pretty  tough  on  a  woman,  isn't  it?"  Bruce  muttered, 
smiling  constrainedly. 

"Did  Baird  say  everything's  going  well?"  Baird 
was  Edith's  physician. 

"Yes.  He  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  he  said  he'd 
be  back  this  evening."  Bruce  stopped  with  a  queer  little 
scowl  of  suspense.  "I  told  her  I'd  see  to  the  trip  with 
the  kiddies,  and  it  seemed  to  relieve  her  a  lot."  His  eye 
went  to  a  pile  of  documents  that  lay  on  the  desk  before 
him.  "It'll  play  the  very  devil  with  business,  taking  three 
days  off  just  now.  But  I  guess  I  can  manage  it  some 
how—" 


HIS  FAMILY  49 

A  muscle  began  to  twitch  on  his  face.  He  re-lit  his  pipe 
with  elaborate  care  and  looked  over  at  Roger  confidingly: 

"Do  you  know  what's  the  matter  with  kids  these  days? 
It's  the  twentieth  century,"  he  said.  "It's  a  disease.  It 
starts  in  their  teeth.  No  modern  girl  can  get  married 
unless  she  has  had  her  teeth  straightened  for  years.  Our 
dentist's  bill,  this  year  alone,  was  over  eight  hundred 
dollars.  But  that  isn't  all.  It  gets  into  their  young  in 
testines,  God  bless  'em,  and  makes  you  pasteurize  all  they 
eat.  It  gets  into  their  nerves  and  tears  'em  up,  and  your 
only  chance  to  save  'em  is  school — not  a  common  school 
but  a  'simple'  school,  tuition  four  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
And  you  hire  a  dancing  teacher  besides — I  mean  a  rhythm 
teacher — and  let  'em  shake  it  out  of  their  feet.  And  after 
that  you  buy  'em  clothes — not  fluffy  clothes,  but  '  simple ' 
clothes,  the  kind  which  always  cost  the  most.  And  then 
you  build  a  simple  home,  in  a  simple  place  like  Morristown. 
The  whole  idea  is  simplicity.  If  you  can't  make  enough 
to  buy  it,  you're  lost.  If  you  can  make  enough,  just  barely 
enough,  you  get  so  excited  you  lose  your  head — and  do 
what  I  did  Monday." 

The  two  men  smiled  at  each  other.  Roger  was  very 
fond  of  Bruce. 

"What  did  you  do  Monday?"  he  asked. 

"I  bought  that  car  I  told  you  about." 

"Splendid!  Best  thing  in  the  world  for  you!  Tell  me 
all  about  it!" 

And  while  Bruce  rapidly  grew  engrossed  in  telling  of 
the  car's  fine  points,  Roger  pictured  his  son-in-law  upon 
hot  summer  evenings  (for  Bruce  spent  his  summers  in 
town)  forgetting  his  business  for  a  time  and  speeding  out 
into  the  country.  Then  he  thought  of  Edith  and  the 
tyranny  of  her  motherhood,  always  draining  her  husband's 
purse  and  keeping  Edith  so  wrapt  up  in  her  children  and 
their  daily  needs  that  she  had  lost  all  interest  in  anything 
outside  her  home.  What  was  there  wrong  about  it?  He 


50  HIS  FAMILY 

knew  that  Edith  prided  herself  on  being  like  her  mother. 
But  Judith  had  always  found  time  for  her  friends.  He 
himself  had  been  more  as  Edith  was  now.  How  quickly 
after  Judith  died  he  had  dropped  all  friends,  all  interests. 
"That's  it,"  he  ruefully  told  himself,  "Edith  takes  after 
her  father."  And  the  same  curious  feeling  which  he  had 
had  with  Laura,  came  back  to  him  with  her  sister.  This 
daughter,  too,  was  a  part  of  himself.  His  deep  instinctive 
craving  to  keep  to  himself  and  his  family  was  living  on  in 
Edith,  was  already  dominating  her  home.  What  a  queer 
mysterious  business  it  was,  this  tie  between  a  man  and 
his  child. 

He  was  thinking  of  this  when  Baird  arrived.  Allan 
Baird  was  not  only  the  doctor  who  had  brought  Edith's 
children  into  the  world,  he  was  besides  an  intimate  friend, 
he  had  been  Brace's  room-mate  at  college.  As  he  came 
strolling  into  the  room  with  his  easy  greeting  of  "Well, 
folks — "  his  low  gruff  voice,  his  muscular  frame,  over  six 
feet  two,  and  the  kindly  calm  assurance  in  his  lean  strong 
visage,  gave  to  Bruce  and  Roger  the  feeling  of  safety  they 
needed.  For  this  kind  of  work  was  his  life.  He  had 
specialized  on  women,  and  after  over  fifteen  years  of 
toilsome  uphill  labor  he  had  become  at  thirty-seven  one 
of  the  big  gynecologists.  He  was  taking  his  success  with 
the  quiet  relish  of  a  man  who  had  had  to  work  for  it  hard. 
And  yet  he  had  not  been  spoiled  by  success.  He  worked 
even  harder  than  before — so  hard,  in  fact,  that  Deborah, 
with  whom  through  Bruce  and  Edith  he  had  long  ago 
struck  up  an  easy  bantering  friendship,  had  sturdily  set 
herself  the  task  of  prying  open  his  eyes  a  bit.  She  had 
taken  him  to  her  school  at  night  and  to  queer  little  foreign 
cafe's.  And  Baird,  with  a  humor  of  his  own,  had  retali 
ated  by  dragging  her  to  the  Astor  Roof  and  to  musical 
plays. 

"If  my  eyes  are  to  be  opened,"  he  had  doggedly  de 
clared,  "I  propose  to  have  some  diamonds  in  the  scenery, 


HIS  FAMILY  51 

and  a  little  cheery  ragtime,  too.  You've  got  a  good  heart, 
Deborah  Gale,  but  your  head  is  full  of  tenements." 

To-night  to  divert  Bruce's  thoughts  from  his  wife,  Baird 
started  him  talking  of  his  work.  In  six  weeks  Bruce  had 
crammed  his  mind  with  the  details  of  skyscraper  building, 
and  his  talk  was  bewildering  now,  bristling  with  technical 
terms,  permeated  through  and  through  with  the  feeling 
of  strain  and  fierce  competition.  As  Roger  listened  he 
had  again  that  sharp  and  oppressive  sensation  of  a  savage 
modern  town  unrelentingly  pressing,  pressing  in.  Rest 
lessly  he  glanced  at  Baird  who  sat  listening  quietly. 
And  Roger  thought  of  the  likeness  between  their  two 
professions.  For  Bruce,  too,  was  a  surgeon.  His  patients 
were  the  husbands  in  their  distracting  offices.  Baird's 
were  the  wives  and  mothers  in  their  equally  distracting 
homes.  Which  were  more  tense,  the  husbands  or  wives? 
And,  good  Lord,  what  was  it  all  about,  this  feverish  strain 
of  getting  and  spending?  What  were  they  spending? 
Their  very  life's  blood.  And  what  were  they  getting? 
Happiness?  What  did  most  of  them  know  of  real  happi 
ness?  How  little  they  knew,  how  blind  they  were,  and 
yet  how  they  laughed  and  chattered  along,  how  engrossed 
in  their  little  games.  What  children,  oh,  what  children ! 

"And  am  I  any  better  than  the  rest?  Do  I  know  what 
I'm  after— what  I'm  about?" 

He  left  them  soon,  for  he  felt  very  tired.  He  went  to 
his  daughter  to  say  good-night.  And  in  her  room  the  talk 
he  had  heard  became  to  him  suddenly  remote,  that  restless 
world  of  small  account.  For  in  Edith,  in  the  one  brief 
hour  since  her  father  had  seen  her  last,  there  had  come  a 
great  transformation,  into  her  face  an  eager  light.  She 
was  slipping  down  into  a  weird  small  world  which  for  a 
brief  but  fearful  season  was  to  be  utterly  her  own,  with 
agony  and  bloody  sweat,  and  joy  and  a  deep  mystery. 
Clumsily  he  took  her  hand.  It  was  moist  and  he  felt  it 
clutch  his  own.  He  heard  her  breathing  rapidly. 


52  HIS  FAMILY 

"  Good-night/'  he  said  in  a  husky  tone.  "  I'll  be  so  glad, 
my  dear,  so  glad." 

For  answer  she  gave  him  a  hurried  smile,  a  glance  from 
her  bright  restless  eyes.  Then  he  went  heavily  from  the 
room. 

At  home  he  found  Deborah  sitting  alone,  with  a  pile  of 
school  papers  in  her  lap.  As  he  entered  she  slowly  turned 
her  head. 

"  How  is  Edith?  "  she  asked  him.  Roger  told  of  his  visit 
uptown,  and  spoke  of  Edith's  anxiety  over  getting  the 
children  up  to  the  farm. 

"I'll  take  them  myself,"  said  Deborah. 

"But  how  can  you  get  away  from  school?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I  can  manage  it.  We'll  leave  on  Friday 
morning  and  I  can  be  back  by  Sunday  night.  I'll  love  it," 
Deborah  answered. 

"It'll  be  a  great  relief  to  her,"  said  Roger,  lighting  a 
cigar.  Deborah  resumed  her  work,  and  there  was  silence 
for  a  time. 

"I  let  George  sit  up  with  me  till  an  hour  after  his  bed 
time,"  she  told  her  father  presently.  "We  started  talking 
about  white  rats — you  see  it's  still  white  rats  with  ;eorge 
— and  that  started  us  wondering  about  God.  George 
wonders  if  God  really  knows  about  rats.  'Has  he  ever 
stuck  his  face  right  down  and  had  a  good  close  look  at  one? 
Has  God  ever  watched  a  rat  stand  up  and  brush  his  whisk 
ers  with  both  paws?  Has  he  ever  really  laughed  at  rats? 
And  that's  another  thing,  Aunt  Deborah — does  God  ever 
laugh  at  all?  Does  he  know  how  to  take  a  joke?  If  he 
don't,  we  might  as  well  quit  right  now!"' 

Roger  laughed  with  relish,  and  his  daughter  smiled  at 
him: 

"Then  the  talk  turned  from  rats  and  God  to  a  big  dam 
out  in  the  Rockies.  George  has  been  reading  about  it, 
he's  thinking  of  being  an  engineer.  And  there  was  so  much 


HIS  FAMILY  53 

he  wanted  to  know  that  he  was  soon  upon  the  verge  of 
discovering  my  ignorance — when  all  of  a  sudden  a  dreamy 
look,  oh,  a  very  dreamy  look,  came  into  his  eyes — and  he 
asked  me  this."  And  over  her  bright  expressive  face 
came  a  scowl  of  boyish  intensity :  " '  Suppose  I  was  an  engi 
neer — and  I  was  working  on  a  dam,  or  may  be  a  bridge,  in 
the  Rockies.  And  say  it  was  pretty  far  down  south — say 
around  the  Grand  Canyon.  I  should  think  they'd  need  a 
dam  down  there,  or  anyhow  a  bridge/  said  George.  And  he 
eyed  me  in  a  cautious  way  which  said  as  plain  as  the  nose 
on  your  face,  'Good  Lord,  she's  only  a  woman,  and  she 
won't  understand.'  But  I  showed  him  I  was  serious,  and 
he  asked  me  huskily,  ' Suppose  it  was.  winter,  Aunt 
Deborah,  and  the  Giants  were  in  Texas.  Do  you  think 
I  could  get  a  few  days  off? '  And  then  before  he  could  tell 
me  the  Giants  were  a  baseball  nine,  I  said  I  was  sure 
he  could  manage  it.  You  should  have  seen  his  face  light 
up.  And  he  added  very  fervently,  '  Gee,  it  must  be  won 
derful  to  be  an  engineer  out  there!' " 

Roger  chuckled  delightedly  and  Deborah  went  on  with 
her  work.  "  How  good  she  is  with  young  uns,"  he  thought. 
"What  a  knack  she  has  of  drawing  'em  out.  What  a  pity 
she  hasn't  some  of  her  own." 

He  slept  until  late  the  next  morning,  and  awoke  to  find 
Deborah  by  his  bed. 

"It's  another  boy,"  she  told  him.  Roger  sat  up  ex 
citedly.  "Bruce  has  just  telephoned  the  news.  The 
children  and  I  have  breakfasted,  and  they're  going  out 
with  their  nurse.  Suppose  you  and  I  go  up  and  see  Bruce 
and  settle  this  trip  to  the  mountains." 

About  an  hour  later,  arriving  at  Edith's  apartment, 
they  found  Bruce  downstairs  with  Allan  Baird  who  was 
just  taking  his  departure.  Bruce's  dark  eyes  shone  with 
relief,  but  his  hand  was  hot  and  nervous.  Allan,  on  the 
contrary,  held  out  to  Edith's  father  a  hand  as  steady  and 
relaxed  as  was  the  bantering  tone  of  his  voice. 


54  HIS  FAMILY 

" Bruce,"  he  said,  "has  for  once  in  his  life  decided  to  do 
something  sensible.  He's  going  to  drop  his  wretched  job 
and  take  a  week  off  with  his  children." 

"And  worry  every  minute  he's  gone,"  Deborah  retorted, 
"and  come  back  and  work  day  and  night  to  catch  up. 
But  he  isn't  going  to  do  it.  I've  decided  to  take  the  chil 
dren  myself." 

"You  have?"  cried  Bruce  delightedly. 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Allan,  indignant. 

"Oh,  you  go  to  thunder,"  Bruce  put  in.  "Haven't  you 
any  delicacy?  Can't  you  see  this  is  no  business  of 
yours?" 

"It  isn't,  eh,"  Allan  sternly  rejoined.  And  of  Deborah 
he  demanded,  "Didn't  you  say  you'd  go  with  me  to  'Pina 
fore'  this  Saturday  night?" 

"Ah,"  sneered  Bruce.  "So  that's  your  game.  And  for 
one  little  night  of  your  pleasure  you'd  do  me  out  of  a  week 
of  my  life!" 

"Like  that,"  said  Baird,  with  a  snap  of  his  fingers. 

"I'm  going,  though,"  said  Deborah. 

"Quite  right,  little  woman,"  Bruce  admonished  her 
earnestly.  "Don't  let  him  rob  you  of  your  happiness." 

"Come  here,"  growled  Baird  to  Deborah.  She  followed 
him  into  the  living  room,  and  Roger  went  upstairs  with 
Bruce. 

"If  he  ever  hopes  to  marry  that  girl,"  said  Bruce,  with 
an  anxious  backward  glance,  "he's  got  to  learn  to  treat 
her  with  a  little  consideration." 

"Quit  your  quarreling,"  Roger  said.  "What's  a  week 
in  the  mountains  to  you?  Hasn't  your  wife  just  risked 
her  life?" 

"Sure  she  has,"  said  Bruce  feelingly.  "And  I  propose 
to  stick  by  her,  too." 

"Can  I  see  her?" 

"No,  you  can't — another  of  Baird's  fool  notions." 

"Then  where's  the  baby?" 


HIS  FAMILY  56 

"Right  in  here." 

Silently  in  front  of  the  cradle  Bruce  and  Roger  stood 
looking  down  with  the  content  which  comes  to  men  on 
such  occasions  when  there  is  no  woman  by  their  side  ex 
pecting  them  to  say  things. 

"I  made  it  a  rule  in  my  family,"  Roger  spoke  up  pres- 
sently,  "to  have  my  first  look  at  each  child  alone." 

"Same  here/'  said  Bruce.  And  they  continued  their 
silent  communion.  A  few  moments  later,  as  they  were 
leaving,  Deborah  came  into  the  room  and  went  softly  to 
the  cradle.  Downstairs  they  found  that  Allan  had  gone, 
and  when  Deborah  rejoined  them  she  said  she  was  going 
to  stick  to  her  plan.  It  was  soon  arranged  that  she  and  the 
youngsters  should  start  on  their  journey  the  following  day. 

Back  at  home  she  threw  herself  into  the  packing  and 
was  busy  till  late  that  night.  At  daybreak  she  was  up 
again,  for  they  were  to  make  an  early  start.  Bruce  came 
with  his  new  automobile,  the  children  were  all  bundled  in, 
together  with  Deborah  and  their  nurse,  and  a  half  hour 
later  at  the  train  Bruce  and  Roger  left  them — Deborah 
flushed  and  happy,  surrounded  by  luggage,  wraps,  small 
boys,  an  ice  box,  toys  and  picture  books.  The  small  red 
hat  upon  her  head  had  already  been  jerked  in  a  scrimmage, 
far  down  over  one  of  her  ears. 

"Don't  worry  about  us,  Bruce,"  she  said.  "We're 
going  to  have  the  time  of  our  lives! "  Bruce  fairly  beamed 
his  gratitude. 

"If  she  don't  marry,"  he  declared,  as  he  watched  the 
train  move  slowly  out,  "there'll  be  a  great  mother  wasted." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  the  weeks  which  followed,  Roger  found  the  peace 
of  his  home  so  interrupted  and  disturbed  by  wedding 
preparations  that  often  retreating  into  his  den  he  earnestly 
told  himself  he  was  through,  that  a  man  with  three  grown 
daughters  was  a  fool  to  show  any  sympathy  with  the  utter 
folly  of  their  lives.  Yield  an  inch  and  they  took  a  mile! 
It  began  one  night  when  Deborah  said, 

"Now,  dearie,  I  think  you  had  better  make  up  your 
mind  to  give  Laura  just  the  kind  of  wedding  she  likes." 

And  Roger  weakly  agreed  to  this,  but  as  time  wore  on 
he  discovered  that  the  kind  of  wedding  Laura  liked  was 
a  thing  that  made  his  blood  run  cold.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  end  whatever  to  the  young  bride's  blithe  demands. 
The  trousseau  part  of  it  he  didn't  mind.  To  the  gowns 
and  hats  and  gloves  and  shoes  and  trunks  and  jaunty 
travelling  bags  which  came  pouring  into  the  house,  he 
made  no  objection.  All  that,  he  considered,  was  fair 
play.  But  what  got  on  Roger's  nerves  was  this  frantic 
fuss  and  change!  The  faded  hall  carpet  had  to  come  up, 
his  favorite  lounge  was  whisked  away,  the  piano  was 
re-tuned  while  he  was  trying  to  take  a  nap,  rugs  were 
beaten,  crates  and  barrels  filled  the  halls,  and  one  whole 
bed-room  stripped  and  bare  was  transformed  into  a  shop 
where  the  wedding  presents  were  displayed.  In  the  shuffle 
his  box  of  cigars  disappeared.  In  short,  there  was  the 
devil  to  pay! 

And  Deborah  was  as  bad  as  the  bride.  At  times  it 
appeared  to  Roger  as  though  her  fingers  fairly  itched  to 
jab  and  tug  at  his  poor  old  house,  which  wore  an  air  of 

56 


HIS  FAMILY  57 

mute  reproach.  She  revealed  a  part  of  her  nature  that  he 
viewed  with  dark  amazement.  Every  hour  she  could  spare 
from  school,  she  was  changing  something  or  other  at  home 
— with  an  eager  glitter  in  her  eyes.  Doing  it  all  for  Laura, 
she  said.  Fiddlesticks  and  rubbish!  She  did  it  because 
she  liked  it! 

In  gloomy  wrath  one  afternoon  he  went  up  to  see 
Edith  and  quiet  down.  She  was  well  on  the  way  to  re 
covery,  but  instead  of  receiving  solace  here  he  only  found 
fresh  troubles.  For  sitting  up  in  her  old-fashioned  bed, 
with  an  old-fashioned  cap  of  lace  upon  her  shapely  little 
head,  Edith  made  her  father  feel  she  had  washed  her  hands 
of  the  whole  affair. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  in  an  injured  tone,  "that  Laura 
doesn't  care  enough  about  her  oldest  sister  to  put  off  the 
wedding  two  or  three  weeks  so  I  could  be  there.  It 
seems  rather  undignified,  I  think,  for  a  girl  to  hurry  her 
wedding  so.  I  should  have  loved  to  make  it  the  dear 
simple  kind  of  wedding  which  mother  would  have  wanted. 
But  so  long  as  she  doesn't  care  for  that — and  in  fact  has 
only  found  ten  minutes — once — to  run  in  and  see  the 
baby—" 

In  dismay  her  father  found  himself  defending  the  very 
daughter  of  whom  he  had  corne  to  complain.  It  was 
not  such  a  short  engagement,  he  said,  he  had  learned  they 
had  been  engaged  some  time  before  they  told  him. 

"Do  you  approve  of  that?"  she  rejoined.  "When  I 
was  engaged,  I  made  Bruce  go  to  you  before  I  even  let 
him — "  here  Edith  broke  off  primly.  "Of  course  that  was 
some  time  ago.  An  engagement,  Laura  tells  me,  is  'a 
mere  experiment'  nowadays.  They  'experiment '  till  they 
feel  quite  sure — then  notify  their  parents  and  get  married 
in  a  week." 

"She  is  rushing  it,  I  admit,"  Roger  soothingly  replied. 
"But  she  has  her  mind  set  on  Paris  in  June." 

"Paris  in  June,"  said  Edith,  "sums  up  in  three  words 


58  HIS  FAMILY 

Laura's  whole  conception  of  marriage.  You  really  ought 
to  talk  to  her,  father.  It's  your  duty,  it  seems  to  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I'd  rather  not  tell  you."  Edith's  glance  went  sternly 
to  the  cradle  by  her  bed.  " Laura  pities  me,"  she  said, 
"for  having  had  five  children." 

"Oh,  now,  my  dear  girl!" 

"She  does,  though — she  said  as  much.  When  she 
dropped  in  the  other  day  and  I  tried  to  be  sympathetic 
and  give  her  a  little  sound  advice,  she  said  I  had  had 
the  wedding  I  liked  and  the  kind  of  married  life  I  liked, 
and  she  was  going  to  have  hers.  And  she  made  it  quite 
plain  that  her  kind  is  to  include  no  children.  It's  to  be 
simply  an  effort  to  find  by  'experiment'  whether  or  not 
she  loves  Hal  Sloane.  If  she  doesn't — "  Edith  gave  a 
slight  but  emphatic  wave  of  dismissal. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  Laura  told  you  that?"  her  father 
asked  with  an  angry  frown. 

"I  mean  she  made  me  feel  it — as  plainly  as  I'm  telling 
it!  What  I  can't  understand,"  his  daughter  went  on,  "is 
Deborah's  attitude  in  the  affair." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Deborah?"  inquired  Roger 
dismally. 

"Oh,  nothing's  the  matter  with  Deborah.  She's  quite 
self-sufficient.  She  at  least  can  play  with  modern  ideas 
and  keep  her  head  while  she's  doing  it.  But  when  poor 
Laura — a  mere  child  with  the  mind  of  a  chicken — catches 
vaguely  at  such  ideas,  applies  them  to  her  own  little  self 
and  risks  her  whole  future  happiness,  it  seems  to  me 
perfectly  criminal  for  Deborah  not  to  interfere!  Not  even 
a  word  of  warning!" 

"Deborah  believes,"  said  her  father,  "in  everyone's 
leading  his  own  life." 

"That's  rot,"  was  Edith's  curt  reply.  "Do  I  lead  my 
own  life?  Does  Bruce?  Do  you?" 

"No,"  growled  Roger  feelingly. 


HIS  FAMILY  59 

"Do  my  children?"  Edith  demanded.  "I  know  Deb 
orah  would  like  them  to.  That's  her  latest  and  most 
modern  fad,  to  run  a  school  where  every  child  shall  sit 
with  a  rat  in  its  lap  or  a  goat,  and  do  just  what  he  pleases — 
follow  his  natural  bent,  she  says.  I  hope  she  won't  come 
up  to  the  mountains  and  practice  on  my  children.  I 
should  hate  to  break  with  Deborah,"  Edith  ended  thought 
fully. 

Roger  rose  and  walked  the  room.  The  comforting  idea 
entered  his  mind  that  when  the  wedding  was  over  he  would 
take  out  his  collection  of  rings  and  carefully  polish  every 
one.  But  even  this  hope  did  not  stay  with  him  long. 

"With  Laura  at  home/'  he  heard  Edith  continue,  "you 
at  least  had  a  daughter  to  run  your  house.  If  Deborah 
tries  to  move  you  out — " 

"She  won't!"  cried  Roger  in  alarm. 

"If  she  does,"  persisted  Edith,  "or  if  she  begins  any 
talk  of  the  kind — you  come  to  me  and  I'll  talk  to  her!" 

Her  father  walked  in  silence,  his  head  down,  frowning 
at  the  floor. 

"It  seems  funny,"  Edith  continued,  "that  women  like 
me  who  give  children  their  lives,  and  men  like  Bruce  who 
are  building  New  York — actually  doing  it  all  the  time — 
have  so  little  to  say  in  these  modern  ideas.  I  suppose  it's 
because  we're  a  little  too  real." 

"To  come  back  to  the  wedding,"  Roger  suggested. 

"To  come  back  to  the  wedding,  father  dear,"  his 
daughter  said  compassionately.  "I'm  afraid  it's  going  to 
be  a  'mere  form'  which  will  make  you  rather  wretched. 
When  you  get  so  you  can't  endure  it,  come  in  and  see  me 
and  the  baby." 

As  he  started  for  home,  her  words  of  warning  recurred 
to  his  mind.  Yes,  here  was  the  thing  that  disturbed  him 
most,  the  ghost  lurking  under  all  this  confusion,  the  part 
which  had  to  do  with  himself.  It  was  bad  enough  to  know 
that  his  daughter,  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  was  about  to 


60  HIS  FAMILY 

settle  her  fate  at  one  throw.  But  to  be  moved  out  of  his 
house  bag  and  baggage!  Roger  strode  wrathfully  up  the 
street. 

"It's  your  duty  to  talk  to  her,"  Edith  had  said.  And 
he  meditated  darkly  on  this:  "Maybe  I  will  and  maybe 
I  won't.  I  know  my  duties  without  being  told.  How  does 
Edith  know  what  her  mother  liked?  We  had  our  own 
likings,  her  mother  and  I,  and  our  own  ideas,  long  after  she 
was  tucked  into  bed.  And  yet  she's  always  harping  on 
'what  mother  would  have  wanted.'  What  I  should  like 
to  know — right  now — is  what  Judith  would  want  if  she 
were  here!" 

With  a  pang  of  utter  loneliness  amid  these  vexing 
problems,  Roger  felt  it  crowding  in,  this  city  of  his  chil 
dren's  lives.  As  he  strode  on  down  Broadway,  an  old  hag 
selling  papers  thrust  one  in  his  face  and  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  headline.  Some  bigwig  woman  re-divorced. 
How  about  Laura's  "  experiment"?  A  mob  of  street  ur 
chins  nearly  upset  him.  How  about  Deborah?  How  about 
children?  How  about  schools,  education,  the  country? 
How  about  God?  Was  anyone  thinking?  Had  anyone 
time?  What  a  racket  it  made,  slam-banging  along.  The 
taxis  and  motor  trucks  thundered  and  brayed,  dark  masses 
of  people  swept  endlessly  by,  as  though  their  very  souls 
depended  on  their  dinners  or  their  jobs,  their  movies,  roar 
ing  farces,  thrills,  their  harum  scarum  dances,  clothes.  A 
plump  little  fool  of  a  woman,  her  skirt  so  tight  she  could 
barely  walk,  tripped  by  on  high-heeled  slippers.  That  was 
it,  he  told  himself,  the  whole  city  was  high-heeled!  No 
solid  footing  anywhere!  And,  good  Lord,  how  they 
chattered! 

He  turned  into  a  less  noisy  street.  What  would  Judith 
want  if  she  were  here?  It  became  disturbingly  clear  to 
him  that  she  would  undoubtedly  wish  him  to  have  a  talk 
with  Laura  now,  find  out  if  she'd  really  made  up  her  mind 
not  to  have  any  children,  and  if  so  to  tell  her  plainly  that 


HIS  FAMILY  61 

she  was  not  only  going  against  her  God  but  risking  her 
own  happiness.  For  though  Judith  had  been  liberal 
about  any  number  of  smaller  things,  she  had  been  de 
cidedly  clear  on  this.  Yes,  he  must  talk  to  Laura. 

"And  she'll  tell  me,"  he  reflected,  "that  Edith  put  me 
up  to  it!" 

If  only  his  oldest  daughter  would  leave  the  other  girls 
alone!  Here  she  was  planning  a  row  with  Deborah  over 
whether  poor  young  George  should  be  allowed  to  play 
with  rats!  It  was  all  so  silly!  .  .  .  Yes,  his  three  children 
were  drifting  apart,  each  one  of  them  going  her  separate 
way.  And  he  rather  took  comfort  in  the  thought,  for  at 
least  it  would  stop  their  wrangling.  But  again  he  pulled 
himself  up  with  a  jerk.  No,  certainly  Judith  would  not 
have  liked  this.  If  she'd  ever  stood  for  anything,  it  was 
for  keeping  the  family  together.  It  had  been  the  heart 
and  center  of  their  last  talks  before  she  died. 

His  face  relaxed  as  he  walked  on,  but  in  his  eyes  was 
a  deeper  pain.  If  only  Judith  could  be  here. 

Before  he  reached  home  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
talk  with  Laura  that  very  night.  He  drew  out  his  latch 
key,  opened  his  door,  shut  it  firmly  and  strode  into  his 
house.  In  the  hall  they  were  putting  down  the  new  carpet. 
Cautiously  picking  his  way  upstairs,  he  inquired  for  Laura 
and  was  told  she  was  dressing  for  dinner.  He  knocked 
at  her  door. 

"Yes?"  came  her  voice. 

"It's  I,"  he  said,  "your  father." 

"Oh,  hello,  dad,"  came  the  answer  gaily,  in  that  high 
sweet  voice  of  hers.  "I'm  frightfully  rushed.  It's  a 
dinner  dance  to-night  for  the  bridesmaids  and  the  ushers." 
Roger  felt  a  glow  of  relief.  "Come  in  a  moment,  won't 
you?" 

What  a  resplendent  young  creature  she  was,  seated 
at  her  dresser.  Behind  her  the  maid  with  needle  and 
thread  was  swiftly  mending  a  little  tear  in  the  fluffy 


62  HIS  FAMILY 

blue  tulle  she  was  wearing.  The  shaded  light  just  over 
her  head  brought  a  shimmer  of  red  in  her  sleek  brown 
hair.  What  lips  she  had,  what  a  bosom.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  smiled  at  him. 

"What  are  you  doing  to-morrow  night?"  her  father 
asked  her. 

"Oh,  dad,  my  love,  we  have  every  evening  filled  and 
crammed  right  up  to  the  wedding/'  she  replied.  "No — 
the  last  evening  I'll  be  here.  Hal's  giving  his  ushers  a 
dinner  that  night." 

"Good.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  my  dear."  He  felt  his 
voice  solemn,  a  great  mistake.  He  saw  the  quick  glance 
from  her  luminous  eyes. 

"All  right,  father — -whenever  you  like." 

Much  embarrassed  Roger  left  the  room. 

The  few  days  which  remained  were  a  crowding  confusion 
of  dressmakers,  gowns  and  chattering  friends  and  gifts 
arriving  at  all  hours.  As  a  part  of  his  resolve  to  do  what 
he  could  for  his  daughter,  Roger  stayed  home  from  his 
office  that  week.  But  all  he  could  do  was  to  unpack 
boxes,  take  out  presents  and  keep  the  cards,  and  say, 
"Yes,  my  dear,  it's  very  nice.  Where  shall  I  put  this 
one?"  As  the  array  of  presents  grew,  from  time  to  time 
unconsciously  he  glanced  at  the  engagement  ring  upon 
Laura's  finger.  And  all  the  presents  seemed  like  that. 
They  would  suit  her  apartment  beautifully.  He'd  be 
glad  when  they  were  out  of  the  house. 

The  only  gift  that  appealed  to  his  fancy  was  a  brooch, 
neither  rich  nor  new,  a  genuine  bit  of  old  jewelry.  But 
rather  to  his  annoyance  he  learned  that  it  had  been  sent 
to  Laura  by  the  old  Galician  Jew  in  the  shop  around  the 
corner.  It  recalled  to  his  mind  the  curious  friendship 
which  had  existed  for  so  long  between  the  old  man  and  his 
daughter.  And  as  she  turned  the  brooch  to  the  light  Roger 
thought  he  saw  in  her  eyes  anticipations  which  made  him 
uneasy.  Yes,  she  was  a  child  of  his.  "June  in  Paris — " 


HIS  FAMILY  63 

other  Junes — "  experiments  " — no  children.  Again  he 
felt  he  must  have  that  talk.  But,  good  Lord,  how  he 
dreaded  it. 

The  house  was  almost  ready  now,  dismantled  and  made 
new  and  strange.  It  was  the  night  before  the  wedding. 
Laura  was  taking  her  supper  in  bed.  What  was  he  going 
to  say  to  her?  He  ate  his  dinner  silently.  At  last  he  rose 
with  grim  resolution. 

"I  think  I'll  go  up  and  see  her,"  he  said.  Deborah 
quickly  glanced  at  him. 

"What  for?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  just  want  to  talk  to  her — " 

"Don't  stay  long,"  she  admonished  him.  "I've  a 
masseuse  coming  at  nine  o'clock  to  get  the  child  in  condi 
tion  to  rest.  Her  nerves  are  rather  tense,  you  know." 

"How  about  mine?"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  started 
upstairs.  "Never  mind,  I've  got  to  tackle  it." 

Laura  saw  what  he  meant  to  say  the  moment  that  he 
entered  the  room,  and  the  tightening  of  her  features  made 
it  all  the  harder  for  Roger  to  think  clearly,  to  remember 
the  grave,  kind,  fatherly  things  which  he  had  intended  to 
tell  her. 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  of  the  wedding,  child,  but  of 
what's  coming  after  that — between  you  and  this  man — 
all  your  life."  He  stopped  short,  with  his  heart  in  his 
mouth,  for  although  he  did  not  look  at  her  he  had  a  quick 
sensation  as  though  he  had  struck  her  in  the  face. 

"Isn't  this  rather  late  to  speak  about  that?  Just  now? 
When  I'm  nervous  enough  as  it  is?" 

"I  know,  I  know."  He  spoke  hurriedly,  humbly.  "I 
should  have  talked  to  you  long  ago,  I  should  have  known 
you  better,  child.  I've  been  slack  and  selfish.  But  it's 
better  late  than  never." 

"But  you  needn't! "  the  girl  exclaimed.  "You  needn't 
tell  me  anything!  I  know  more  than  you  think — I  know 
enough!"  Roger  looked  at  her,  then  at  the  wall.  She 


64  HIS  FAMILY 

went  on  in  a  voice  rather  breathless:  "I  know  what  I'm 
doing — exactly — just  what  I'm  getting  into.  It's  not  as 
it  was  when  you  were  young — it's  different — we  talk  of 
these  things.  Harold  and  I  have  talked  it  all  out."  In 
the  brief  and  dangerous  pause  which  followed  Roger  kept 
looking  at  the  wall. 

"Have  you  talked — about  having  children?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer  sharply,  and  then  he  felt  the 
hot  clutch  of  her  hand.  "Hadn't  you  better  go  now, 
dad?"  He  hesitated. 

"No,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  low.  "Do  you  mean  to 
have  children,  Laura?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  I  think  you  do  know.  Do  you  mean  to  have  children?  " 
Her  big  black  eyes,  dilating,  were  fixed  defiantly  on  his 
own. 

"Well  then,  no,  I  don't!"  she  replied.  He  made  a  des 
perate  effort  to  think  what  he  could  say  to  her.  Good  God, 
how  he  was  bungling!  Where  were  all  his  arguments? 

"How  about  your  religion?"  he  blurted  out. 

"I  haven't  any — which  makes  me  do  that — I've  a  right 
to  be  happy!" 

"You  haven't! "  His  voice  had  suddenly  changed.  In 
accent  and  in  quality  it  was  like  a  voice  from  the  heart  of 
New  England  where  he  had  been  born  and  bred.  "I 
mean  you  won't  be  happy — not  unless  you  have  a  child! 
It's  what  you  need — it'll  fill  your  life!  It'll  settle  you — 
deepen  you — tone  you  down!" 

"Suppose  I  don't  want  to  be  toned  down!"  The  girl 
was  almost  hysterical.  "I'm  no  Puritan — I  want  to  live! 
I  tell  you  we  are  different  now!  We're  not  all  like 
Edith — and  we're  not  like  our  mothers!  We  want  to  live! 
And  we  have  a  right  to!  Why  don't  you  go?  Can't  you 
see  I'm  nearly  crazy?  It's  my  last  night,  my  very  last! 
I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you — I  don't  even  know  what  I'm 
saying!  And  you  come  and  try  to  frighten  me!"  Her 


HIS  FAMILY  65 

voice  caught  and  broke  into  sobs.  "You  know  nothing 
about  me!  You  never  did!  Leave  me  alone,  can't  you — 
leave  me  alone!" 

"Father?"  He  heard  Deborah's  voice,  abrupt  and 
stern,  outside  the  door. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  hoarsely.  He  went  in  blind  fashion 
out  of  the  room  and  down  to  his  study.  He  lit  a  cigar  and 
smoked  wretchedly  there.  When  presently  Deborah  ap 
peared  he  saw  that  her  face  was  set  and  hard;  but  as  she 
caught  the  baffled  look,  the  angry  tortured  light  in  his 
eyes,  her  own  expression  softened. 

' '  Poor  father, ' '  she  said,  in  a  pitying  way.  ' { If  Edith  had 
only  let  you  alone." 

"I  certainly  didn't  do  much  good." 

"Of  course  you  didn't — you  did  harm — oh,  so  much 
more  harm  than  you  know."  Into  the  quiet  voice  of  his 
daughter  crept  a  note  of  keen  regret.  "I  wanted  to  make 
her  last  days  in  this  house  a  time  she  could  look  back 
on,  so  that  she'd  want  to  come  home  for  help  if  ever  she's 
in  trouble.  She  has  so  little — don't  you  see? — of  what  a 
woman  needs  these  days.  She  has  grown  up  so  badly. 
Oh,  if  you'd  only  let  her  alone.  It  was  such  a  bad,  bad 
time  to  choose."  She  went  to  her  father  and  kissed  him. 
"Well,  it's  over  now,"  she  said,  "and  we'll  make  the  best 
we  can  of  it.  I'll  tell  her  you're  sorry  and  quiet  her  down. 
And  to-morrow  we'll  try  to  forget  it  has  happened." 

For  Roger  the  morrow  went  by  in  a  whirl.  The  wedding, 
a  large  church  affair,  was  to  take  place  at  twelve  o'clock. 
He  arose  early,  put  on  his  Prince  Albert,  went  down  and 
ate  his  breakfast  alone.  The  waitress  was  flustered,  the 
coffee  was  burnt.  He  finished  and  anxiously  wandered 
about.  The  maids  were  bustling  in  and  out,  with  Deborah 
giving  orders  pellmell.  The  caterers  came  trooping  in. 
The  bridesmaids  were  arriving  and  hurrying  up  to  Roger's 
room.  That  place  was  soon  a  chaos  of  voices,  giggles, 


66  HIS  FAMILY 

peals  of  laughter.  Laura's  trunks  were  brought  down 
stairs,  and  Roger  tagged  them  for  the  ship,  one  for  the 
cabin  and  three  for  the  hold,  and  saw  them  into  the  wagon. 
Then  he  strode  distractedly  everywhere,  till  at  last  he  was 
hustled  by  Deborah  into  a  taxi  waiting  outside. 

"It's  all  going  so  smoothly,"  Deborah  said,  and  a  faint 
sardonic  glimmer  came  into  her  father's  hunted  eyes. 
Deborah  was  funny! 

Soon  he  found  himself  in  the  church.  He  heard  whis 
pers,  eager  voices,  heard  one  usher  say  to  another,  "God, 
what  a  terrible  head  I've  got ! "  And  Roger  glared  at  him 
for  that.  Plainly  these  youngsters,  all  mere  boys,  had 
been  up  with  the  groom  a  good  part  of  the  night.  .  .  . 
But  here  was  Laura,  pale  and  tense.  She  smiled  at  him 
and  squeezed  his  hand.  There  was  silence,  then  the  organ, 
and  now  he  was  taking  her  up  the  aisle.  Strange  faces 
stared.  His  jaw  set  hard.  At  last  they  reached  the  altar. 
An  usher  quickly  touched  his  arm  and  he  stepped  back 
where  he  belonged.  He  listened  but  understood  nothing. 
Just  words,  words  and  motions. 

"If  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why  they  may  not  be 
lawfully  joined  together,  let  him  now  speak  or  else  here 
after  forever  hold  his  peace." 

"No,"  thought  Roger,  "I  won't  speak." 

Just  then  he  caught  sight  of  Deborah's  face,  and  at  the 
look  in  her  steady  gray  eyes  all  at  once  he  could  feel  the 
hot  tears  in  his  own. 

At  the  wedding  breakfast  he  was  gay  to  a  boisterous 
degree.  He  talked  to  strange  women  and  brought  them 
food,  took  punch  with  men  he  had  never  laid  eyes  on, 
went  off  on  a  feverish  hunt  for  cigars,  came  back  dis 
tractedly,  joked  with  young  girls  and  even  started  some 
of  them  dancing.  The  whole  affair  was  over  in  no  time. 
The  bride  and  the  groom  came  rushing  downstairs;  and 
as  they  escaped  from  the  shower  of  rice,  Roger  ran  after 
them  down  the  steps.  He  gripped  Sloane's  hand. 


HIS  FAMILY  67 

"Remember,  boy,  it's  her  whole  life! "  entreated  Roger 
hoarsely. 

"Yes,  sir!    I'll  look  out!    No  fear!" 

"Good-bye,  daddy!" 

"God  bless  you,  dear!" 

They  were  speeding  away.  And  with  the  best  man, 
who  looked  weary  and  spent,  Roger  went  slowly  back  up 
the  steps.  It  was  an  effort  now  to  talk.  Thank  Heaven 
these  people  soon  were  gone.  Last  of  all  went  the  pon 
derous  aunt  of  the  groom.  How  the  taxi  groaned  as  he 
helped  her  inside  and  started  her  off  to  Bridgeport.  Back 
in  his  study  he  found  his  cigars  and  smoked  one  dismally 
with  Bruce.  Bruce  was  a  decent  sort  of  chap.  He  knew 
when  to  be  silent. 

"Well,"  he  spoke  finally,  rising,  "I  guess  I'll  have  to 
get  back  to  the  office."  He  smiled  a  little  and  put  his 
hand  on  Roger's  weary  shoulder.  "We're  glad  it's  over — 
eh?"  he  asked. 

"Bruce,"  said  Roger  heavily,  "youVe  got  a  girl  of  your 
own  growing  up.  Don't  let  her  grow  to  feel  you're  old. 
Live  on  with  her.  She'll  need  you."  His  massive  blunt 
face  darkened.  "The  world's  so  damnably  new,"  he 
muttered,  "so  choked  up  with  fool  ideas."  Bruce  still 
smiled  affectionately. 

"Go  up  and  see  Edith,"  he  said,  "and  forget  'em.  She 
never  lets  one  into  the  flat.  She  said  you  were  to  be  sure 
to  come  and  tell  her  about  the  wedding." 

"All  right,  I'll  go,"  said  Roger.  He  hunted  about  for 
his  hat  and  coat.  What  a  devilish  mess  they  had  made  of 
the  house.  A  half  hour  later  he  was  with  Edith;  but  there, 
despite  his  efforts  to  answer  all  her  questions,  he  grew 
heavier  and  heavier,  till  at  last  he  barely  spoke.  He 
sat  watching  Edith's  baby. 

"Did  you  talk  to  Laura?"  he  heard  her  ask. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "It  did  no  good."  He  knew  that 
Edith  was  waiting  for  more,  but  he  kept  doggedly  silent. 


68  HIS  FAMILY 

"Well,  dear,"  she  said  presently,  "at  least  you  did  what 
you  could  for  her." 

"I've  never  done  what  I  could,"  he  rejoined.  "Not 
with  any  one  of  you."  He  glanced  at  her  with  a  twinge 
of  pain.  "I  don't  know  as  it  would  have  helped  much 
if  I  had.  This  town  is  running  away  with  itself.  I  want  a 
rest  now,  Edith,  I  want  things  quiet  for  a  while."  He  felt 
her  anxious,  pitying  look. 

"Where's  Deborah?"  she  asked  him.  "Gone  back  to 
school  already?" 

"I  don't  know  where  she  is,"  he  replied.  And  then  he 
rose  forlornly.  "I  guess  I'll  be  going  back  home,"  he  said. 

On  his  way,  as  his  thoughts  slowly  cleared,  the  old 
uneasiness  rose  in  his  mind.  Would  Deborah  want  to 
keep  the  house?  Suppose  she  suggested  moving  to  some 
titty-tatty  little  flat.  No,  he  would  not  stand  in  her  way. 
But,  Lord,  what  an  end  to  make  of  his  life. 

His  home  was  almost  dark  inside,  but  he  noticed  rather 
to  his  surprise  that  the  rooms  had  already  been  put  in 
order.  He  sank  down  on  the  living  room  sofa  and  lay 
motionless  for  a  while.  How  tired  he  was.  From  time  to 
time  he  drearily  sighed.  Yes,  Deborah  would  find  him  old 
and  life  here  dull  and  lonely.  Where  was  she  to-night,  he 
wondered.  Couldn't  she  quit  her  zoo  school  for  one  single 
afternoon?  At  last,  when  the  room  had  grown  pitch  dark, 
he  heard  the  maid  lighting  the  gas  in  the  hall.  Roger 
loudly  cleared  his  throat,  and  at  the  sound  the  startled 
girl  ejaculated,  "Oh,  my  Gawd!" 

"It's  I,"  said  Roger  sternly.  "Did  Miss  Deborah  say 
when  she'd  be  back?" 

"She  didn't  go  out,  sir.    She's  up  in  her  room." 

Roger  went  up  and  found  her  there.  All  afternoon  with 
both  the  maids  she  had  been  setting  the  house  to  rights, 
and  now  she  ached  in  every  limb.  She  was  lying  on  her 
bed,  and  she  looked  as  though  she  had  been  crying. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  inquired. 


HIS  FAMILY  69 

"At  Edith's,"  her  father  answered.  She  reached  up 
and  took  his  hand,  and  held  it  slowly  tighter. 

"  You  aren't  going  to  find  it  too  lonely  here,  with  Laura 
gone?"  she  asked  him.  And  the  wistfulness  in  her  deep 
sweet  voice  made  something  thrill  in  Roger. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  retorted.  Deborah  gave  a  queer 
little  laugh. 

"Oh,  I'm  just  silly,  that's  all,"  she  said.  "I've  been 
having  a  fit  of  blues.  I've  been  feeling  so  old  this  after 
noon — a  regular  old  woman.  I  wanted  you,  dearie,  and 
I  was  afraid  that  you — "  she  broke  off. 

"Look  here,"  said  Roger  sharply.  "Do  you  really 
want  to  keep  this  house?" 

"Keep  this  house?    Why,  father!" 

"You  think  you  can  stand  it  here  alone,  just  the  two  of 
us?"  he  demanded. 

"I  can,"  cried  Deborah  happily.  Her  father  walked 
to  the  window.  There  as  he  looked  blindly  out,  his  eyes 
were  assaulted  by  the  lights  of  all  those  titty-tatty  flats. 
And  a  look  of  vicious  triumph  appeared  for  a  moment  on 
his  face. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  quietly,  turning  back.  "Then 
we're  both  suited."  He  went  to  the  door.  "I'll  go  and 
wash  up  for  supper,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  a  relief  to  him  to  find  how  smoothly  he  and  Deb 
orah  dropped  back  into  their  old  relations.  It  was  good 
to  get  home  those  evenings;  for  in  this  new  stage  of  its 
existence,  with  its  family  of  two,  the  house  appeared  to 
have  filled  itself  with  a  deep  reposeful  feeling.  Laura 
had  gone  out  of  its  life.  He  glanced  into  her  room  one 
night,  and  it  looked  like  a  guest  room  now.  The  sight  of 
it  brought  him  a  pang  of  regret.  But  the  big  ship  which 
was  bearing  her  swiftly  away  to  "  Paris  in  June"  seemed 
bearing  off  Roger's  uneasiness  too.  He  could  smile  at 
his  former  fears,  for  Laura  was  safely  married  and  wildly 
in  love  with  her  husband.  Time,  he  thought,  would  take 
care  of  the  rest.  Occasionally  he  missed  her  here — her 
voice,  high-pitched  but  musical,  chatting  and  laughing 
at  the  'phone,  her  bustle  of  dressing  to  go  out,  glimpses 
of  her  extravagances,  of  her  smart  suits  and  evening 
gowns,  of  all  the  joyous  color  and  dash  that  she  had  given 
to  his  home.  But  these  regrets  soon  died  away.  The  old 
house  shed  them  easily,  as  though  glad  to  enter  this  long 
rest. 

For  the  story  of  his  family,  from  Roger's  point  of  view 
at  least,  was  a  long  uneven  narrative,  with  prolonged 
periods  of  peace  and  again  with  events  piling  one  on  the 
other.  And  now  there  came  one  of  those  peaceful  times, 
and  Roger  liked  the  quiet.  The  old  routine  was  re-estab 
lished — his  dinner,  his  paper,  his  cigar  and  then  his  book 
for  the  evening,  some  good  old-fashioned  novel  or  some 
pleasant  book  of  travel  which  he  and  Judith  had  read  aloud 
when  they  were  planning  out  their  lives.  They  had  meant 
to  go  abroad  so  often  when  the  children,  had  grown  up.  And 

70 


HIS  FAMILY  71 

he  liked  to  read  about  it  still.  Life  was  so  quiet  over  the 
sea,  things  were  so  old  and  mellow  there.  He  resumed,  too, 
his  horseback  rides,  and  on  the  way  home  he  would  stop 
in  for  a  visit  with  Edith  and  her  baby.  The  wee  boy 
grew  funnier  every  day,  with  his  sudden  kicks  and  sneezes, 
his  waving  fists  and  mighty  yawns.  And  Roger  felt 
drawn  to  his  daughter  here,  for  in  these  grateful  seasons 
of  rest  that  followed  the  birth  of  each  of  her  children, 
Edith  loved  to  lie  very  still  and  make  new  plans  for  her 
small  brood. 

Only  once  she  spoke  of  Laura,  and  then  it  was  to  suggest 
to  him  that  he  gather  together  all  the  bills  his  daugh 
ter  had  doubtless  left  behind. 

"If  you  don't  settle  them/'  Edith  said,  "they'll  go 
to  her  husband.  And  you  wouldn't  like  that,  would  you?  " 

Roger  said  he  would  see  to  it,  and  one  evening  after 
dinner  he  started  in  on  Laura's  bills.  It  was  rather  an 
appalling  time.  He  looked  into  his  bank  account  and 
found  that  Laura's  wedding  would  take  about  all  his  sur 
plus.  But  this  did  not  dismay  him  much,  for  money 
matters  never  did.  It  simply  meant  more  work  in  the 
office. 

The  next  day  he  rose  early  and  was  in  his  office  by  nine 
o'clock.  He  had  not  been  so  prompt  in  months,  and  many 
of  his  employees  came  in  late  that  morning.  But  nobody 
seemed  very  much  perturbed,  for  Roger  was  an  easy  em 
ployer.  Still,  he  sternly  told  himself,  he  had  been  letting 
things  get  altogether  too  slack.  He  had  been  neglecting 
his  business  again.  The  work  had  become  so  cut  and 
dried,  there  was  nothing  creative  left  to  do.  It  had  not 
been  so  in  years  gone  by.  Those  years  had  fairly  bristled 
with  ideas  and  hopes  and  schemes.  But  even  those  old 
memories  were  no  longer  here  to  hearten  him.  They  had 
all  been  swept  away  when  Bruce  had  made  him  move  out 
of  his  office  in  a  dark  creaky  edifice  down  close  under 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  and  come  up  to  this  new  building,  this 


72  HIS  FAMILY 

steel-ribbed  caravansary  for  all  kinds  of  business  ven 
tures,  this  place  of  varnished  woodwork,  floods  of  day 
light,  concrete  floors,  this  building  fireproof  throughout. 
That  expressed  it  exactly,  Roger  thought.  Nothing 
could  take  fire  here,  not  even  a  man's  imagination,  even 
though  he  did  not  feel  old.  Now  and  then  in  the  elevator, 
as  some  youngster  with  eager  eyes  pushed  nervously 
against  him,  Roger  would  frown  and  wonder,  "What  are 
you  so  excited  about?  " 

But  again  the  business  was  running  down,  and  this 
time  he  must  jerk  it  back  before  it  got  beyond  him.  He 
set  himself  doggedly  to  the  task,  calling  in  his  assistants 
one  by  one,  going  through  the  work  in  those  outer 
rooms,  where  at  tables  long  rows  of  busy  young  girls, 
with  colored  pencils,  scissors  and  paste,  were  demolish 
ing  enormous  piles  of  newspapers  and  magazines.  And 
vaguely,  little  by  little,  he  came  to  a  realization  of  how 
while  he  had  slumbered  the  life  of  the  country  had  swept 
on.  For  as  he  studied  the  lists  and  the  letters  of  his  pa 
trons,  Roger  felt  confusedly  that  a  new  America  was  here. 

Clippings,  clippings,  clippings.  Business  men  and  busi 
ness  firms,  gigantic  corporations,  kept  sending  here  for 
clippings,  news  of  themselves  or  their  rivals,  keeping  keen 
watch  on  each  other's  affairs  for  signs  of  strength  or  weak 
ness.  How  savage  was  the  fight  these  days.  Here  was 
news  of  mines  and  mills  and  factories  all  over  the  land, 
clippings  sent  each  morning  by  special  messengers  down 
town  to  reach  the  brokers'  offices  before  the  market 
opened.  One  broker  wrote,  "  Please  quote  your  terms  for 
the  following.  From  nine  to  two  o'clock  each  day  our 
messenger  will  call  at  your  office  every  hour  for  clippings 
giving  information  of  the  companies  named  below." 
The  long  list  appended  carried  Roger's  fancy  out  all  over 
the  continent.  And  then  came  this  injunction:  "Remem 
ber  that  our  messenger  must  leave  your  office  every  hour. 
In  information  of  this  kind  every  minute  counts." 


HIS  FAMILY  73 

Clippings,  clippings,  clippings.  As  Roger  turned  over 
his  morning  mail,  in  spite  of  himself  he  grew  absorbed. 
What  a  change  in  the  world  of  literature.  What  a  host  of 
names  of  scribblers,  not  authors  but  just  writers,  not  only 
men  but  women  too,  novelists  and  dramatists,  poets  and 
muckrakers  all  jumbled  in  together,  each  one  of  them 
straining  for  a  place.  And  the  actors  and  the  actresses,  the 
musicians  and  the  lecturers,  each  with  his  press  agent 
and  avid  for  publicity,  "fame!"  And  here  were  society 
women,  from  New  York  and  other  cities,  all  eager  for 
press  notices  of  social  affairs  they  had  given  or  managed, 
charity  work  they  had  conducted,  suffrage  speeches  they 
had  made.  Half  the  women  in  the  land  were  fairly  talk 
ing  their  heads  off,  it  seemed.  Some  had  been  on  his  lists 
for  years.  They  married  and  wanted  to  hear  what  was 
said  in  the  papers  about  their  weddings,  they  quarreled 
and  got  divorces  and  still  sent  here  for  clippings,  they  died 
and  still  their  relatives  wrote  in  for  the  funeral  notices. 
And  even  death  was  commercialized.  A  maker  of  monu 
ments  wanted  news  "of  all  people  of  large  means,  dead  or 
dangerously  ill,  in  the  State  of  Pennsylvania."  Here 
were  demands  from  charity  bodies,  hospitals  and  colleges, 
from  clergymen  with  an  anxious  eye  on  the  Monday 
morning  papers.  And  here  was  an  anarchist  millionaire! 
And  here  was  an  insane  asylum  wanting  to  see  itself  in 
print! 

With  a  grim  smile  on  his  heavy  visage,  Roger  stared  out 
of  his  window.  Slowly  the  smile  faded,  a  wistful  look 
came  on  his  face. 

"Who'll  take  my  business  when  I'm  gone?" 

If  his  small  son  had  only  lived,  with  what  new  zest  and 
vigor  it  might  have  been  made  to  grow  and  expand.  If 
only  his  son  had  been  here  by  his  side.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEBORAH  needed  rest,  he  thought,  for  the  bright  at 
tractive  face  of  his  daughter  was  looking  rather  pale  of 
late,  and  the  birthmark  on  her  forehead  showed  a  faint 
thin  line  of  red.  One  night  at  dinner,  watching  her, 
he  wondered  what  was  on  her  mind.  She  had  come  in 
late,  and  though  several  times  she  had  made  an  effort  to 
keep  up  the  conversation,  her  cheeks  were  almost  colorless 
and  more  than  once  in  her  deepset  eyes  came  a  flash  of 
pain  that  startled  him. 

"Look  here.  What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asked. 
Deborah  looked  up  quickly. 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it,  dad — " 

"Very  well,"  he  answered.  And  with  a  slight  hesi 
tation,  "But  I  think  I  know  the  trouble,"  he  said. 
"And  perhaps  some  other  time — when  you  do  feel  like 
talking — "  He  stopped,  for  on  her  wide  sensitive  lips  he 
saw  a  twitch  of  amusement. 

"What  do  you  think  is  the  trouble?"  she  asked.  And 
Roger  looked  at  her  squarely. 

"Loneliness,"  he  answered. 

"Why?  "she  asked  him. 

"Well,  there's  Edith's  baby — and  Laura  getting  mar 
ried—" 

"  I  see — and  so  I'm  lonely  for  a  family  of  my  own.  But 
you're  forgetting  my  school,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  retorted.  "But  that's  not  at 
all  the  same.  Interesting  work,  no  doubt,  but — well,  it 
isn't  personal." 

"Oh,  isn't  it?"  she  answered,  and  she  drew  a  quivering 
breath.  Rising  from  the  table  she  went  into  the  living 

74 


HIS  FAMILY  75 

room,  and  there  a  few  moments  later  he  found  her  walking 
up  and  down.  "I  think  I  mil  tell  you  now,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  afraid  of  being  alone  to-night,  of  keeping  this  matter 
to  myself."  He  looked  at  her  apprehensively. 

"Very  well,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

"This  is  the  trouble,"  she  began.  "Down  in  my 
school  we've  a  family  of  about  three  thousand  children. 
A  few  I  get  to  know  so  well  I  try  to  follow  them  when 
they  leave.  And  one  of  these,  an  Italian  boy — his  name 
is  Joe  Bolini — was  one  of  the  best  I  ever  had,  and  one  of 
the  most  appealing.  But  Joe  took  to  drinking  and  got 
in  with  a  gang  of  boys  who  blackmailed  small  shopkeepers. 
He  used  to  come  to  me  at  times  in  occasional  moods  of  re 
pentance.  He  was  a  splendid  physical  type  and  he'd 
been  a  leader  in  our  athletics,  so  I  took  him  back  into  the 
school  to  manage  our  teams  in  basket-ball.  He  left  the 
gang  and  stopped  drinking,  and  we  had  long  talks  to 
gether  about  his  great  ambition.  He  wanted  to  enter  the 
Fire  Department  as  soon  as  he  was  twenty-one.  And  I 
promised  to  use  my  influence."  She  stopped,  still  frown 
ing  slightly. 

"What  happened?"  Roger  asked  her. 

"His  girl  took  up  with  another  man,  and  Joe  has  hot 
Italian  blood.  He  got  drunk  one  night  and — shot  them 
both."  There  was  another  silence.  "I  did  what  I  could," 
she  said  harshly,  "but  he  had  a  bad  record  behind  him, 
and  the  young  assistant  district  attorney  had  his  own 
record  to  think  of,  too.  So  Joe  got  a  death  sentence.  We 
appealed  the  case  but  it  did  no  good.  He  was  sent  up  the 
river  and  is  in  the  death  house  now — and  he  sent  for  me 
to  come  to-day.  His  letter  hinted  he  was  scared,  he 
wrote  that  his  priest  was  no  good  to  him.  So  I  went  up 
this  afternoon.  Joe  goes  to  the  chair  to-morrow  at  six." 

Deborah  went  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down  inertly.  Roger 
remained  motionless,  and  a  dull  chill  crept  over  him. 

"So  you  see  my  work  is  personal,"  he  heard  her  mutter 


76  HIS  FAMILY 

presently.  All  at  once  she  seemed  so  far  away,  such  a 
stranger  to  him  in  this  life  of  hers. 

"By  George,  it's  horrible!"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  you 
went  to  see  the  boy!" 

"  I'm  glad,"  was  his  daughter's  quick  retort.  "  I've  been 
getting  much  too  sure  of  myself — of  my  school,  I  mean, 
and  what  it  can  do.  I  needed  this  to  bring  me  back  to 
the  kind  of  world  we  live  in!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  roughly  asked. 

"I  mean  there  are  schools  and  prisons!  And  gallows 
and  electric  chairs!  And  I'm  for  schools!  They've  tried 
their  jails  and  gallows  for  whole  black  hideous  centuries! 
What  good  have  they  done?  If  they'd  given  Joe  back  to 
the  school  and  me,  I'd  have  had  him  a  fireman  in  a  year! 
I  know,  because  I  studied  him  hard!  He'd  have  grown 
fighting  fires,  he  would  have  saved  lives!" 

Again  she  stopped,  with  a  catch  of  her  breath.  In  sus 
pense  he  watched  her  angry  struggle  to  regain  control  of 
herself.  She  sat  bolt  upright,  rigid;  her  birthmark  showed 
a  fiery  red.  In  a  few  moments  he  saw  her  relax. 

"But  of  course,"  she  added  wearily,  "it's  much  more 
complex  than  that.  A  school  is  nothing  nowadays — just 
by  itself  alone,  I  mean — it's  only  a  part  of  a  city's  life 
— which  for  most  tenement  children  is  either  very  dull 
and  hard,  or  cheap  and  false  and  overexciting.  And  be 
hind  all  that  lie  the  reasons  for  that.  And  there  are  so 
many  reasons."  She  stared  straight  past  her  father  as 
though  at  something  far  away.  Then  she  seemed  to  recall 
herself:  "But  I'm  talking  too  much  of  my  family." 

Roger  carefully  lit  a  cigar: 

"  I  don't  think  you  are,  my  dear.  I'd  like  to  hear  more 
about  it."  She  smiled: 

"To  keep  my  mind  off  Joe,  you  mean." 

"And  mine,  too,"  he  answered. 

They  had  a  long  talk  that  evening  about  her  hope  of 
making  her  school  what  Roger  visaged  confusedly  as  a 


HIS  FAMILY  77 

kind  of  mammoth  home,  the  center  of  a  neighborhood, 
of  one  prodigious  family.  At  times  when  the  clock  on  the 
mantle  struck  the  hour  loud  and  clear,  there  would  fall 
a  sudden  silence,  as  both  thought  of  what  was  to  happen 
at  dawn.  But  quickly  Roger  would  question  again  and 
Deborah  would  talk  steadily  on.  It  was  after  midnight 
when  she  stopped. 

"  You've  been  good  to  me  to-night,  dearie,"  she  said. 
" Let's  go  to  bed  now,  shall  we?" 

"Very  well,"  he  answered.  He  looked  at  his  daughter 
anxiously.  She  no  longer  seemed  to  him  mature.  He 
could  feel  what  heavy  discouragements,  what  problems 
she  was  facing  in  the  dark  mysterious  tenement  world 
which  she  had  chosen  to  make  her  own.  And  compared 
to  these  she  seemed  a  mere  girl,  a  child  groping  its  way, 
just  making  a  start.  And  so  he  added  wistfully,  "I  wish 
I  could  be  of  more  help  to  you."  She  looked  up  at  him 
for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  know  why  you  are  such  a  help?"  she  said. 
"It's  because  you  have  never  grown  old — because  you've 
never  allowed  yourself  to  grow  absolutely  certain  about 
anything  in  life."  A  smile  half  sad  and  half  perplexed 
came  on  her  father's  heavy  face. 

"You  consider  that  a  strong  point?"  he  asked. 

"I  do,"  she  replied,  "compared  to  being  a  bundle  of 
creeds  and  prejudices." 

"Oh,  I've  got  prejudices  enough." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "And  so  have  I.  But  we're  not  even 
sure  of  them,  these  days." 

"The  world  has  a  habit  of  crowding  in,"  her  father 
muttered  vaguely. 

Roger  did  not  sleep  that  night.  He  could  not  keep  his 
thoughts  away  from  what  was  going  to  happen  at  dawn. 
Yes,  the  city  was  crowding  in  upon  this  quiet  house  of  his. 
Dimly  he  could  recollect,  in  the  genial  years  of  long  ago, 


78  HIS  FAMILY 

just  glancing  casually  now  and  then  at  some  small  and 
unobtrusive  notice  in  his  evening  paper:  " Execution  at 
Sing  Sing."  It  had  been  so  remote  to  him.  But  here  it 
was  smashing  into  his  house,  through  the  life  his  own 
daughter  was  leading  day  and  night  among  the  poor! 
Each  time  he  thought  of  that  lad  in  a  cell,  again  a  chill 
crept  over  him!  But  savagely  he  shook  it  off,  and  by  a 
strong  effort  of  his  will  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  things 
she  had  told  him  about  her  school.  Yes,  in  her  main  idea 
she  was  right.  He  had  no  use  for  wild  reforms,  but  here 
was  something  solid,  a  good  education  for  every  child. 
More  than  once,  while  she  had  talked,  something  very 
deep  in  Roger  had  leaped  up  in  swift  response. 

For  Deborah,  too,  was  a  part  of  himself.  He,  too,  had 
had  his  feeling  for  humanity  in  the  large.  For  years  he 
had  run  a  boys7  club  at  a  little  mission  school  in  which 
his  wife  had  been  interested,  and  on  Christmas  Eve  he 
had  formed  the  habit  of  gathering  up  a  dozen  small  urchins 
right  off  the  street  and  taking  them  'round  and  fitting 
them  out  with  good  warm  winter  clothing,  after  which 
he  had  gone  home  to  help  Judith  trim  the  Christmas  tree 
and  fill  their  children's  stockings.  And  later,  when  she 
had  gone  to  bed,  invariably  he  had  taken  "The  Christmas 
Carol"  from  its  shelf  and  had  settled  down  with  a  glow 
of  almost  luxurious  brotherhood.  There  was  sentiment 
in  Roger  Gale,  and  as  he  read  of  "Tiny  Tim"  his  deepset 
eyes  would  glisten  with  tears. 

And  now  here  was  Deborah  fulfilling  a  part  of  him  in 
herself.  "You  will  live  on  in  our  children's  lives."  But 
this  was  going  much  too  far!  She  was  letting  herself  be 
swallowed  up  completely  by  this  work  of  hers!  It  was  all 
very  well  for  the  past  ten  years,  but  she  was  getting  on 
in  age !  High  time  to  marry  and  settle  down ! 

Again  angrily  he  shook  off  the  thought  of  that  boy  Joe 
alone  in  a  cell,  eyes  fixed  in  animal  terror  upon  the  steel 
door  which  would  open  so  soon. 


HIS  FAMILY  79 

The  day  was  slowly  breaking.  It  was  the  early  part  of 
June.  How  fresh  and  lovely  it  must  be  up  there  in  the 
big  mountains  with  Edith's  happy  little  lads.  Here  it  was 
raw  and  garish,  weird.  Some  sparrows  began  quarreling 
just  outside  his  window.  Roger  rose  and  walked  the  room. 
Restlessly  he  went  into  the  hall.  The  old  house  appeared 
so  strange  in  this  light — as  though  stripped  bare — there 
was  something  gone.  Softly  he  came  to  Deborah's 
door.  It  was  open  wide,  for  the  night  had  been  warm, 
and  she  lay  awake  upon  her  bed  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  the 
ceiling.  She  turned  her  head  and  saw  him  there.  He 
came  in  and  sat  down  by  her  window.  For  a  long  time 
neither  made  a  sound.  Then  the  great  clock  on  the  dis 
tant  tower,  which  had  been  silent  through  the  night,  re 
sumed  its  deep  and  measured  boom.  It  struck  six  times. 
There  was  silence  again.  More  and  more  taut  grew  his 
muscles,  and  suddenly  it  felt  to  him  as  though  Deborah's 
fierce  agony  were  pounding  into  his  very  soul.  The  slow, 
slow  minutes  throbbed  away.  At  last  he  rose  and  left 
her.  There  was  a  cold  sweat  on  his  brow. 

"I'll  go  down  and  make  her  some  coffee,"  he  thought. 

Down  in  the  kitchen  it  was  a  relief  to  bang  about  hunting 
for  the  utensils.  On  picnics  up  in  the  mountains  his  coffee 
had  been  famous.  He  made  some  now  and  boiled  some 
eggs,  and  they  breakfasted  in  Deborah's  room.  She 
seemed  almost  herself  again.  Later,  while  he  was  dressing, 
he  saw  her  in  the  doorway.  She  was  looking  at  her  father 
with  bright  and  grateful,  affectionate  eyes. 

"Will  you  come  to  school  with  me  to-day?  I'd  like  you 
to  see  it,"  Deborah  said. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered  gruffly. 


CHAPTER  X 

OUT  of  the  subway  they  emerged  into  a  noisy  tenement 
street.  Roger  had  known  such  streets  as  this,  but  only 
in  the  night-time,  as  picturesque  and  adventurous  ways 
in  an  underground  world  he  had  explored  in  search  of 
strange  old  glittering  rings.  It  was  different  now.  Gone 
were  the  Rembrandt  shadows,  the  leaping  flare  of  torches, 
the  dark  surging  masses  of  weird  uncouth  humanity. 
Here  in  garish  daylight  were  poverty  and  ugliness,  here 
were  heaps  of  refuse  and  heavy  smells  and  clamor.  It 
disgusted  and  repelled  him,  and  he  was  tempted  to  turn 
back.  But  glancing  at  Deborah  by  his  side  he  thought  of 
the  night  she  had  been  through.  No,  he  decided,  he  would 
go  on  and  see  what  she  was  up  to  here. 

They  turned  into  a  narrower  street  between  tall  dirty 
tenements,  and  in  a  twinkling  all  was  changed.  For  the 
street,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  was  gay  with  flaunting  colors, 
torrents  of  bobbing  hats  and  ribbons,  frocks  and  blouses, 
shirts  and  breeches,  vivid  reds  and  yellows  and  blues.  It 
was  deafening  with  joyous  cries,  a  shrill  incessant  chatter, 
chatter,  piercing  yells  and  shrieks  of  laughter.  Children, 
swarms  of  children,  children  of  all  sizes  passed  him,  clean 
and  dirty,  smiling,  scowling,  hurrying,  running,  pummel- 
ing,  grabbing,  whirling  each  other  'round  and  'round — 
till  the  very  air  seemed  quivering  with  wild  spirits  and  new 
life! 

He  heard  Deborah  laughing.  Five  hilarious  small  boys 
had  hold  of  her  hands  and  were  marching  in  triumph 
waving  their  caps.  " Heigh  there — -heigh  there!  Heigh — 
heigh — heigh!" 

The  school  was  close  in  front  of  them.  An  enormous 

80 


HIS  FAMILY  81 

building  of  brick  and  tile  wedged  into  a  disordered  mass 
of  tenements,  shops  and  factories,  it  had  been  built  around 
a  court  shut  out  from  the  street  by  a  high  steel  fence. 
They  squeezed  into  the  gateway,  through  which  a  shouting 
punching  mob  of  urchins  were  now  pushing  in;  and  soon 
from  a  balcony  above  Roger  looked  down  into  the  court, 
where  out  of  a  wild  chaos  order  was  appearing.  Boys  to 
the  right  and  girls  to  the  left  were  forming  in  long  sinuous 
lines,  and  three  thousand  faces  were  turned  toward  the 
building.  In  front  appeared  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  Then 
suddenly  he  heard  a  crash  from  underneath  the  balcony, 
and  looking  down  he  saw  a  band  made  up  of  some  thirty 
or  forty  boys.  Their  leader,  a  dark  Italian  lad,  made  a 
flourish,  a  pass  with  his  baton,  and  the  band  broke  into 
a  blaring  storm,  an  uproarious,  booming  march.  The  mob 
below  fell  into  step,  and  line  after  line  in  single  file  the 
children  marched  into  their  school. 

"  Look  up !  Look  all  around  you ! "  He  heard  Deborah's 
eager  voice  in  his  ear.  And  as  he  looked  up  from  the 
court  below  he  gave  a  low  cry  of  amazement.  In  hundreds 
of  windows  all  around,  of  sweatshops,  tenements,  factories, 
on  tier  upon  tier  of  fire  escapes  and  even  upon  the  roofs 
above,  silent  watchers  had  appeared.  For  this  one  mo 
ment  in  the  day  the  whole  congested  neighborhood  had 
stopped  its  feverish  labor  and  become  an  amphitheater 
with  all  eyes  upon  the  school.  And  the  thought  flashed 
into  Roger's  mind:  " Deborah's  big  family!" 

He  had  a  strange  confusing  time.  In  her  office,  in  a 
daze,  he  sat  and  heard  his  daughter  with  her  two  assistant 
principals,  her  clerk  and  her  stenographer,  plunge  into  the 
routine  work  of  the  day.  What  kind  of  school  teacher 
was  this?  She  seemed  more  like  the  manager  of  some 
buzzing  factory.  Messages  kept  coming  constantly  from 
class-rooms,  children  came  for  punishment,  and  on  each 
small  human  problem  she  was  passing  judgment  quickly. 
Meanwhile  a  score  of  mothers,  most  of  them  Italians  with 


82  HIS  FAMILY 

colored  shawls  upon  their  Heads,  had  straggled  in  arid 
taken  seats,  and  one  by  one  they  came  to  her  desk.  For 
these  women  who  had  been  children  in  peasant  huts  in 
Italy  now  had  children  of  their  own  in  the  great  city  of 
New  York,  and  they  found  it  very  baffling.  How  to  keep 
them  in  at  night?  How  to  make  them  go  to  the  priest? 
How  to  feed  and  clothe  them?  How  to  live  in  these  tene 
ment  homes,  in  this  wild  din  and  chaos?  They  wanted 
help  and  they  wanted  advice.  Deborah  spoke  in  Italian, 
but  turning  to  her  father  she  would  translate  from  time  to 
time. 

A  tired  scowling  woman  said,  "My  boy  won't  obey  me. 
His  father  is  dead.  When  I  slap  him  he  only  jumps  away. 
I  lock  him  in  and  he  steals  the  key,  he  keeps  it  in  his  pocket. 
He  steals  the  money  that  I  earn.  He  says  I'm  from  the 
country."  And  a  flabby  anxious  woman  said,  "My  girl 
runs  out  to  dance  halls.  Sometimes  she  comes  back  at 
two  in  the  morning.  She  is  fifteen  and  she  ought  to  get 
married.  But  what  can  I  do?  A  nice  steady  man  who 
never  dances  comes  sometimes  to  see  her — but  she  makes 
faces  and  calls  him  a  fatty,  she  dances  before  him  and 
pushes  him  out  and  slams  the  door.  What  can  I  do?" 

"Please  come  and  see  our  janitor  and  make  him  fix  our 
kitchen  sink!"  an  angry  little  woman  cried.  "When  I 
try  to  wash  the  dishes  the  water  spouts  all  over  me!" 
And  then  a  plump  rosy  mother  said  in  a  soft  coaxing  voice, 
"I  have  eight  little  children,  all  nice  and  clean.  When 
you  tell  them  to  do  anything  they  always  do  it  quickly. 
They  smile  at  you,  they  are  like  saints.  So  could  the  kind 
beautiful  teacher  fix  it  up  with  a  newspaper  to  send  them 
to  the  country — this  summer  when  it  is  so  hot?  The 
newspaper  could  send  a  man  and  he  could  take  our  pic 
tures." 

"Most  of  us  girls  used  to  be  in  this  school,"  said  a  bright 
looking  Jewess  of  eighteen.  "And  you  taught  us  how  we 
should  live  nice.  But  how  can  we  live  nice  when  our  shop 


HIS  FAMILY  83 

is  so  rotten?  Our  boss  is  trying  to  kiss  the  girls,  he  is 
trying  to  hug  them  on  the  stairs.  And  what  he  pays  us 
is  a  joke,  and  we  must  work  till  nine  o'clock.  So  will  you 
help  us,  teacher,  and  give  us  a  room  for  our  meetings  here? 
We  want  to  have  a  union." 

A  truant  officer  brought  in  two  ragged,  frightened  little 
chaps.  Found  on  the  street  during  school  hours,  they 
had  to  give  an  account  of  themselves.  Sullenly  one  of 
them  gave  an  address  far  up  in  the  Bronx,  ten  miles  away. 
They  had  not  been  home  for  a  week,  he  said.  Was  he 
lying?  What  was  to  be  done?  Somewhere  in  the  city 
their  homes  must  be  discovered.  And  the  talk  of  the 
truant  officer  made  Roger  feel  ramifications  here  which 
wound  out  through  the  police  and  the  courts  to  reforma 
tories,  distant  cells.  He  thought  of  that  electric  chair, 
and  suddenly  he  felt  oppressed  by  the  heavy  complexity 
of  it  all. 

And  this  was  part  and  parcel  of  his  daughter's  daily 
work  in  school!  Still  dazed,  disturbed  but  curious,  he  sat 
and  watched  and  listened,  while  the  bewildering  demands 
of  Deborah's  big  family  kept  crowding  in  upon  her.  He 
went  to  a  few  of  the  class-rooms  and  found  that  reading 
and  writing,  arithmetic  and  spelling  were  being  taught  in 
ways  which  he  had  never  dreamed  of.  He  found  a  kinder 
garten  class,  a  carpenter  shop  and  a  printing  shop,  a 
sewing  class  and  a  cooking  class  in  a  large  model  kitchen. 
He  watched  the  nurse  in  her  hospital  room,  he  went  into 
the  dental  clinic  where  a  squad  of  fifty  urchins  were  having 
their  teeth  examined,  and  out  upon  a  small  side -roof  he 
found  a  score  of  small  invalids  in  steamer  chairs,  all  fast 
asleep.  It  was  a  strange  astounding  school!  He  heard 
Deborah  speak  of  a  mothers'  club  and  a  neighborhood 
association;  and  he  learned  of  other  ventures  here,  the 
school  doctor,  the  nurse  and  the  visitor  endlessly  making 
experiments,  delving  into  the  neighborhood  for  ways 
to  meet  its  problems.  And  by  the  way  Deborah  talked 


84  HIS  FAMILY 

to  them  he  felt  she  had  gone  before,  that  years  ago 
by  day  and  night  she  had  been  over  the  ground  alone. 
And  she'd  done  all  this  while  she  lived  in  his  house! 

Scattered  memories  out  of  the  past,  mere  fragments 
she  had  told  him,  here  flashed  back  into  his  mind:  hu 
morous  little  incidents  of  daily  battles  she  had  waged  in 
rotten  old  tenement  buildings  with  rags  and  filth  and  gar 
bage,  with  vermin,  darkness  and  disease.  Mingled  with 
these  had  been  accounts  of  dances,  weddings  and  christen 
ings  and  of  curious  funeral  rites.  And  struggling  with 
such  dim  memories  of  Deborah  in  her  twenties,  called 
forth  in  his  mind  by  the  picture  of  the  woman  of  thirty 
here,  Roger  grew  still  more  confused.  What  was  to  be  the 
end  of  it?  She  was  still  but  a  pioneer  in  a  jungle,  end 
lessly  groping  and  trying  new  things. 

"How  many  children  are  there  in  the  public  schools?" 
he  asked. 

"About  eight  hundred  thousand/'  Deborah  said. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  groaned,  and  he  felt  within  him  a 
glow  of  indignation  rise  against  these  immigrant  women 
for  breeding  so  inconsiderately.  With  the  mad  city  grow 
ing  so  fast,  and  the  people  of  the  tenements  breeding, 
breeding,  breeding,  and  packing  the  schools  to  bursting, 
what  could  any  teacher  be  but  a  mere  cog  in  a  machine, 
ponderous,  impersonal,  blind,  grinding  out  future  New 
Yorkers? 

He  reached  home  limp  and  battered  from  the  storm  of 
new  impressions  coming  on  top  of  his  sleepless  night. 
He  had  thought  of  a  school  as  a  simple  place,  filled  with 
little  children,  mischievous  at  times  perhaps  and  some 
with  dirty  faces,  but  still  with  minds  and  spirits  clean, 
unsoiled  as  yet  by  contact  with  the  grim  spirit  of  the 
town.  He  had  thought  of  childhood  as  something  inti 
mate  and  pure,  inside  his  home,  his  family.  Instead  of 
that,  in  Deborah's  school  he  had  been  disturbed  and 
thrilled  by  the  presence  all  around  him  of  something 


HIS  FAMILY  85 

wild,  barbaric,  dark,  compounded  of  the  city  streets,  of 
surging  crowds,  of  rushing  feet,  of  turmoil,  filth,  disease 
and  death,  of  poverty  and  vice  and  crime.  But  Roger 
could  still  hear  that  band.  And  behind  its  blaring  crash 
and  din  he  had  felt  the  vital  throbbing  of  a  tremendous 
joyousness,  of  gaiety,  fresh  hopes  and  dreams,  of  leaping 
young  emotions  like  deep  buried  bubbling  springs  burst 
ing  up  resistlessly  to  renew  the  fevered  life  of  the  town! 
Deborah's  big  family!  Everybody's  children! 

"You  will  live  on  in  our  children's  lives."    The  vision 
hidden  in  those  words  now  opened  wide  before  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHE  told  him  the  next  morning  her  night  school  closed 
for  the  summer  that  week. 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  her  father  said  deter 
minedly.  She  gave  him  an  affectionate  smile: 

"Oh,  dearie.    Haven't  you  had  enough?" 

"I  guess  I  can  stand  it  if  you  can,"  was  his  gruff  re 
joinder,  "though  if  I  ran  a  school  like  yours  I  think  by 
night  I'd  have  schooled  enough.  Do  most  principals 
run  night  schools  too?" 

"A  good  many  of  them  do." 

"Isn't  it  taxing  your  strength?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  you  have  to  tax  your  strength,"  his  daughter 
replied  good  humoredly,  "to  really  accomplish  anything? 
Don't  you  have  to  risk  yourself  in  order  to  really  live  these 
days?  Suppose  you  come  down  to-morrow  night.  We 
won't  go  to  the  school,  for  I  doubt  if  the  clubs  and  classes 
would  interest  you  very  much.  I'll  take  you  through  the 
neighborhood." 

They  went  down  the  following  evening.  The  night 
was  warm  and  humid,  and  through  the  narrow  tenement 
streets  there  poured  a  teeming  mass  of  life.  People  by  the 
thousands  passed,  bareheaded,  men  in  shirt  sleeves,  their 
faces  glistening  with  sweat.  Animal  odors  filled  the  air. 
The  torches  on  the  pushcarts  threw  flaring  lights  and  shad 
ows,  the  peddlers  shouted  hoarsely,  the  tradesmen  in  the 
booths  and  stalls  joined  in  with  cries,  shrill  peals  of  mirth. 
The  mass  swept  onward,  talking,  talking,  and  its  voice 
was  a  guttural  roar.  Small  boys  and  girls  with  piercing 
yells  kept  darting  under  elbows,  old  women  dozed  on  door- 

86 


HIS  FAMILY  87 

steps,  babies  screamed  on  every  side.  Mothers  leaned  out 
of  windows,  and  by  their  faces  you  could  see  that  they  were 
screaming  angrily  for  children  to  come  up  to  bed.  But  you 
could  not  hear  their  cries.  Here  around  a  hurdy-gurdy 
gravely  danced  some  little  girls.  A  tense  young  Jew,  dark 
faced  and  thin,  was  shouting  from  a  wagon  that  all  men 
and  women  must  be  free  and  own  the  factories  and  mills. 
A  mob  of  small  boys,  clustered  'round  a  "camp  fire" 
they  had  made  on  the  street,  were  leaping  wildly  through 
the  flames.  It  was  a  mammoth  cauldron  here,  seething, 
bubbling  over  with  a  million  foreign  lives.  Deborah's 
big  family. 

She  turned  into  a  doorway,  went  down  a  long  dark  pas 
sage  and  came  into  a  court-yard  enclosed  by  greasy  tene 
ment  walls  that  reared  to  a  spot  of  dark  blue  sky  where  a 
few  quiet  stars  were  twinkling  down.  With  a  feeling  of 
repugnance  Roger  followed  his  daughter  into  a  tall  rear 
building  and  up  a  rickety  flight  of  stairs.  On  the  fourth 
landing  she  knocked  at  a  door,  and  presently  it  was  opened 
by  a  stout  young  Irish  woman  with  flushed  haggard  features 
and  disheveled  hair. 

"Oh.     Good  evening,  Mrs.   Berry." 

"Good  evening.  Come  in,"  was  the  curt  reply.  They 
entered  a  small  stifling  room  where  were  a  stove,  two  kitch 
en  chairs  and  three  frowzled  beds  in  corners.  On  one 
of  the  beds  lay  a  baby  asleep,  on  another  two  small  rest 
less  boys  sat  up  and  watched  the  visitors.  A  sick  man  lay 
upon  the  third.  And  a  cripple  boy,  a  boarder  here,  stood 
on  his  crutches  watching  them.  Roger  was  struck  at 
once  by  his  face.  Over  the  broad  cheek  bones  the  sallow 
skin  was  tightly  drawn,  but  there  was  a  determined  set 
to  the  jaws  that  matched  the  boy's  shrewd  grayish  eyes, 
and  his  face  lit  up  in  a  wonderful  smile. 

"Hello,  Miss  Deborah,"  he  said.  His  voice  had  a 
cheery  quality. 

"Hello,  Johnny.     How  are  you?" 


88  HIS  FAMILY 

"Fine,  thank  you." 

"  That's  good.    I've  brought  my  father  with  me." 

"Howdado,  sir,  glad  to  meet  you." 

"It's  some  time  since  you've  been  to  see  me,  John," 
Deborah  continued. 

"I  know  it  is,"  he  answered.  And  then  with  a  quick 
jerk  of  his  head,  "He's  been  pretty  bad,"  he  said.  Roger 
looked  at  the  man  on  the  bed.  With  his  thin  waxen  fea 
tures  drawn,  the  man  was  gasping  for  each  breath. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Roger  whispered. 

"Lungs,"  said  the  young  woman  harshly.  "You 
needn't  bother  to  speak  so  low.  He  can't  hear  you  any 
how.  He's  dying.  He's  been  dying  weeks." 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  of  this?"  Deborah 
asked  gently. 

"Because  I  knew  what  you'd  want  to  do — take  him  off 
to  a  hospital!  And  I  ain't  going  to  have  it!  I  promised 
him  he  could  die  at  home!" 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Deborah  answered.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence,  and  the  baby  whimpered  in  its  sleep.  One  child 
had  gone  to  his  father's  bed  and  was  frowning  at  his  agony 
as  though  it  were  a  tiresome  sight. 

"Are  any  of  them  coughing?"    Deborah  inquired. 

"No,"  said  the  woman  sharply. 

"Yes,  they  are,  two  of  'em,"  John  cheerfully  corrected 
her. 

"You  shut  up!"  she  said  to  him,  and  she  turned  back 
to  Deborah.  "It's  my  home,  I  guess,  and  my  family,  too. 
So  what  do  you  think  that  you  can  do?  "  Deborah  looked 
at  her  steadily. 

"Yes,  it's  your  family,"  she  agreed.  "And  it's  none  of 
rny  business,  I  know — except  that  John  is  one  of  my  boys 
— and  if  things  are  to  go  on  like  this  I  can't  let  him  board 
here  any  more.  If  he  had  let  me  know  before  I'd  have 
taken  him  from  you  sooner.  You'll  miss  the  four  dollars  a 
week  he  pays." 


HIS  FAMILY  89 

The  woman  swallowed  fiercely.  The  flush  on  her  face 
had  deepened.  She  scowled  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

"We  can  all  die  for  all  I  care!  I've  about  got  to  the  end 
of  my  rope!" 

"I  see  you  have."  Deborah's  voice  was  low.  "You've 
made  a  hard  plucky  fight,  Mrs.  Berry.  Are  there  any 
empty  rooms  left  in  this  building?" 

"Yes,  two  upstairs.    What  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

"  I'm  going  to  rent  them  for  you.  I'll  arrange  it  to-night 
with  the  janitor,  on  condition  that  you  promise  to  move 
your  children  to-morrow  upstairs  and  keep  them  there  un 
til  this  is  over.  Will  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  That's  sensible.  And  I'll  have  one  of  the  visiting  nurses 
here  within  an  hour." 

"Thanks." 

"And  later  on  we'll  have  a  talk." 

"All  right—" 

"Good-night,    Mrs.    Berry." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Gale,  I'm  much  obliged.  .  .  .  Say, 
wait  a  minute!  Will  you?"  The  wife  had  followed 
them  out  on  the  landing  and  she  was  clutching  Deborah's 
arm.  "Why  can't  the  nurse  give  him  something,"  she 
whispered,  "to  put  him  to  sleep  for  good  and  all?  It  ain't 
right  to  let  a  man  suffer  like  that!  I  can't  stand  it!  I'm 
— I'm — "  she  broke  off  with  a  sob.  Deborah  put  one  arm 
around  her  and  held  her  steadily  for  a  moment. 

"The  nurse  will  see  that  he  sleeps,"  she  said.  "Now, 
John,"  she  added,  presently,  when  the  woman  had  gone 
into  the  room,  "I  want  you  to  get  your  things  together. 
I'll  have  the  janitor  move  them  upstairs.  You  sleep  there 
to-night,  and  to-morrow  morning  come  to  see  me  at  the 
school." 

"All  right,  Miss  Deborah,  much  obliged.  I'll  be  all 
right.  Good-night,  sir — " 

"Good-night,  my  boy,"  said  Roger,  and  suddenly  he 


90  HIS  FAMILY 

cleared  his  throat.  He  followed  his  daughter  down  the 
stairs.  A  few  minutes  she  talked  with  the  janitor,  then 
joined  her  father  in  the  court. 

"I'm  sorry  I  took  you  up  there/'  she  said.  "I  didn't 
know  the  man  was  sick." 

"Who  are  they?"  he  asked. 

"Poor  people/'  she  said.     And  Roger  flinched. 

"Who  is  this  boy?" 

"A  neighbor  of  theirs.  His  mother,  who  was  a  widow, 
died  about  two  years  ago.  He  was  left  alone  and  scared 
to  death  lest  he  should  be  'put  away'  in  some  big  institu 
tion.  He  got  Mrs.  Berry  to  take  him  in,  and  to  earn  his 
board  he  began  selling  papers  instead  of  coming  to  our 
school.  So  our  school  visitor  looked  him  up.  Since  then 
I  have  been  paying  his  board  from  a  fund  I  have  from 
friends  uptown,  and  so  he  has  finished  his  schooling.  He's 
to  graduate  next  week.  He  means  to  be  a  stenographer." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Seventeen,"  she  replied. 

"How  was  he  crippled?    Born  that  way?" 

"  No.  When  he  was  a  baby  his  mother  dropped  him  one 
Saturday  night  when  she  was  drunk.  He  has  never  been 
able  to  sit  down.  He  can  lie  down  or  he  can  stand.  He's 
always  in  pain,  it  never  stops.  I  learned  that  from  the 
doctor  I  took  him  to  see.  But  whenever  you  ask  him  how 
he  feels  you  get  the  same  answer  always:  'Fine,  thank 
you.'  He's  a  fighter,  is  John." 

"He  looks  it.    I'd  like  to  help  that  boy—'" 

"All  right — you  can  help  him,"  Deborah  said.  "You'll 
find  him  quite  a  tonic." 

"A  what?" 

"A  tonic,"  she  repeated.  And  with  a  sudden  tightening 
of  her  wide  and  sensitive  mouth,  Deborah  added  slowly, 
"Because,  though  I've  known  many  hungiy  boys,  Johnny 
Geer  is  the  hungriest  of  them  all — hungry  to  get  on  in  life, 
to  grow  and  learn  and  get  good  things,  get  friends,  love, 


HIS  FAMILY  91 

happiness,  everything!"  As  she  spoke  of  this  child  in  her 
family,  over  her  strong  quiet  face  there  swept  a  fierce,  in 
tent  expression  which  struck  Roger  rather  cold.  What  a 
fight  she  was  making,  this  daughter  of  his,  against  what 
overwhelming  odds.  But  all  he  said  to  her  was  this : 

"Now  let's  look  at  something  more  cheerful,  my  dear." 

"Very  well/'  she  answered  with  a  smile.  "We'll  go  and 
see  Isadore  Freedom." 

"Who's  he?" 

"Isadore  Freedom,"  said  Deborah,  "is  the  beginning 
of  something  tremendous.  He  came  from  Russian  Po 
land — and  the  first  American  word  he  learned  over 
there  was  'freedom.'  So  in  New  York  he  changed  his 
name  to  that — very  solemnly,  by  due  process  of  law.  It 
cost  him  seven  dollars.  He  had  nine  dollars  at  the  time. 
Isadore  is  a  flame,  a  kind  of  a  torch  in  the  wilderness." 

"How  does  the  flame  earn  his  living?" 

"At  first  in  a  sweatshop,"  she  replied.  "But  he  came 
to  my  school  five  nights  a  week,  and  at  ten  o'clock  when 
school  was  out  he  went  to  a  little  basement  cafe,  where  he 
sat  at  a  corner  table,  drank  one  glass  of  Russian  tea  and 
studied  till  they  closed  at  one.  Then  he  went  to  his  room, 
he  told  me,  and  used  to  read  himself  to  sleep.  He  slept 
as  a  rule  four  hours.  He  said  he  felt  he  needed  it.  Now 
he's  a  librarian  earning  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  and  having 
all  the  money  he  needs  he  has  put  the  thought  of  it  out  of 
his  life  and  is  living  for  education — education  in  free 
dom.  For  Isadore  has  studied  his  name  until  he  thinks 
he  knows  what  it  means." 

They  found  him  in  a  small  public  library  on  an  ill- 
smelling  ghetto  street.  The  place  had  been  packed  with 
people,  but  the  clock  had  just  struck  ten  and  the  readers 
were  leaving  reluctantly,  many  with  books  under  their 
arms.  At  sight  of  Deborah  and  her  father,  Isadore  leaped 
up  from  his  desk  and  came  quickly  to  meet  them  with 
outstretched  hands. 


92  HIS  FAMILY 

"  Oh,  this  is  splendid !  Good  evening ! "  he  cried.  Hardly 
more  than  a  boy,  perhaps  twenty-one,  he  was  short  of 
frame  but  large  of  limb.  He  had  wide  stooping  shoulders 
and  reddish  hollows  in  his  dark  cheeks.  Yet  there  was  a 
springiness  in  his  step,  vigor  and  warmth  in  the  grip  of  his 
hand,  in  the  very  curl  of  his  thick  black  hair,  in  his  voice, 
in  his  enormous  smile. 

"Come,"  he  said  to  Roger,  when  the  greetings  were 
over.  "You  shall  see  my  library,  sir.  But  I  want  that 
you  shall  not  see  it  alone.  While  you  look  you  must  close 
for  me  your  eyes  and  see  other  libraries,  many,  many,  all 
over  the  world.  You  must  see  them  in  big  cities  and  in 
very  little  towns  to-night.  You  must  see  people,  millions 
there,  hungry,  hungry  people.  Now  I  shall  show  you  their 
food  and  their  drink."  As  he  spoke  he  was  leading  them 
proudly  around.  In  the  stacks  along  the  walls  he  pointed 
out  fiction,  poetry,  history,  books  of  all  the  sciences. 

"They  read  all,  all!"  cried  Isadore.  "Look  at  this 
Darwin  on  my  desk.  In  a  year  so  many  have  read  this 
book  it  is  a  case  for  the  board  of  health.  And  look 
at  this  shelf  of  economics.  I  place  it  next  to  astronomy. 
And  I  say  to  these  people,  '  Yes,  read  about  jobs  and  your 
hours  and  wages.  Yes,  you  must  strike,  you  must  have 
better  lives.  But  you  must  read  also  about  the  stars — 
and  about  the  big  spaces — silent — not  one  single  little 
sound  for  many,  many  million  years.  To  be  free  you  must 
grow  as  big  as  that — inside  of  your  head,  inside  of  your 
soul.  It  is  not  enough  to  be  free  of  a  czar,  a  kaiser  or  a 
sweatshop  boss.  What  will  you  do  when  they  are  gone? 
My  fine  people,  how  will  you  run  the  world?  You  are 
deaf  and  blind,  you  must  be  free  to  open  your  own  ears 
and  eyes,  to  look  into  the  books  and  see  what  is  there — 
great  thoughts  and  feelings,  great  ideas!  And  when  you 
have  seen,  then  you  must  think — you  must  think  it  all 
out  every  time !  That  is  freedom ! ' "  He  stopped  abruptly. 
Again  on  his  dark  features  came  a  huge  and  winning 


HIS  FAMILY  93 

smile,  and  with  an  apologetic  shrug,  "But  I  talk  too  much 
of  my  books,"  he  said.  "  Come.  Shall  we  go  to  my  cafe?  " 

On  a  neighboring  street,  a  few  minutes  later,  down  a 
flight  of  steep  wooden  stairs  they  descended  into  a  little 
cafe",  shaped  like  a  tunnel,  the  ceiling  low,  the  bare  walls 
soiled  by  rubbing  elbows,  dirty  hands,  the  air  blue  and 
hot  with  smoke.  Young  men  and  girls  packed  in  at  small 
tables  bent  over  tall  glasses  of  Russian  tea,  and  gesturing 
with  their  cigarettes  declaimed  and  argued  excitedly. 
Quick  joyous  cries  of  greeting  met  Isadore  from  every  side. 

"You  see?"  he  said  gaily.  "This  is  my  club.  Here 
we  are  like  a  family."  He  ordered  tea  of  a  waiter  who 
seemed  more  like  a  bosom  friend.  And  leaning  eagerly 
forward,  he  began  to  speak  in  glowing  terms  of  the 
men  and  girls  from  sweatshops  who  spent  their  nights  in 
these  feasts  of  the  soul,  talking,  listening,  grappling,  "for 
the  power  to  think  with  minds  as  clear  as  the  sun  when 
it  rises,"  he  ardently  cried.  "There  is  not  a  night  in  this 
city,  not  one,  when  hundreds  do  not  talk  like  this  until 
the  breaking  of  the  day!  And  then  they  sleep!  A  little 
joke!  For  at  six  o'clock  they  must  rise  to  their  work! 
And  that  is  a  force,"  he  added,  "not  only  for  those  people 
but  a  force  for  you  and  me.  Do  you  see?  When  you  feel 
tired,  when  all  your  hopes  are  sinking  low,  you  think 
of  those  people  and  you  say,  'I  will  go  to  their  places.' 
And  you  go.  You  listen  and  you  watch  their  faces,  and 
such  fire  makes  you  burn!  You  go  home,  you  are  happy, 
you  have  a  new  life! 

"And  perhaps  at  last  you  will  have  a  religion,"  he  con 
tinued,  in  fervent  tones.  "You  see,  with  us  Jews — and 
with  Christians,  too — the  old  religion,  it  is  gone.  And  in 
its  place  there  is  nothing  strong.  And  so  the  young  people 
go  all  to  pieces.  They  dance  and  they  drink.  If  you  go 
to  those  dance  halls  you  say,  'They  are  crazy! '  For  danc 
ing  alone  is  not  enough.  And  you  say,  'These  people 
must  have  a  religion.'  You  ask,  'Where  can  I  find  a  new 


94  HIS  FAMILY 

God?'  And  you  reply,  'There  is  no  God/  And  then 
you  must  be  very  sad.  You  know  how  it  is?  You  feel  too 
free.  And  you  feel  scared  and  lonely.  You  look  up  at 
the  stars.  There  are  millions.  You  are  only  a  speck  of 
dust — on  one. 

"But  then  you  come  to  my  library.  And  you  see  those 
hungry  people — more  hungry  than  men  have  ever  been. 
And  you  see  those  books  upon  the  shelves.  And  you  know 
when  they  come  together  at  last,  when  that  power  to  think 
as  clear  as  the  sun  comes  into  the  souls  of  those  people 
so  hungry,  then  we  shall  have  a  new  god  for  the  world. 
For  there  is  no  end  to  what  they  shall  do,"  Isadore  ended 
huskily. 

Roger  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat.  He  glanced  into  his 
daughter's  eyes  and  saw  a  suspicious  brightness  there. 
Isadore  looked  at  her  happily. 

"You  see?"  he  said  to  Roger.  "When  she  came  here 
to-night  she  was  tired,  half  sick.  But  now  she  is  all  filled 
with  life!" 

Later,  on  the  street  outside  when  Isadore  had  left  them, 
Deborah  turned  to  her  father: 

"Before  we  go  home,  there's  one  place  more." 

And  they  went  to  a  building  not  far  away,  a  new  struc 
ture  twelve  floors  high  which  rose  out  of  the  neighboring 
tenements.  It  had  been  built,  she  told  him,  by  a  socialist 
daily  paper.  A  dull  night  watchman  half  asleep  took  them 
in  the  elevator  up  to  the  top  floor  of  the  building,  where 
in  a  bustling,  clanking  loft  the  paper  was  just  going  to 
press.  Deborah  seemed  to  know  one  of  the  foremen.  He 
smiled  and  nodded  and  led  the  way  through  the  noise 
and  bustle  to  a  large  glass  door  at  one  end.  This  she 
opened  and  stepped  out  upon  a  fire  escape  so  broad  it 
was  more  like  a  balcony.  And  with  the  noise  of  the  presses 
subdued,  from  their  high  perch  they  looked  silently  down. 

All  around  them  for  miles,  it  seemed,  stretched  dark  un- 


HIS  FAMILY  95 

even  fields  of  roofs,  with  the  narrow  East  River  winding 
its  way  through  the  midst  of  them  to  the  harbor  below, 
silvery,  dim  and  cool  and  serene,  opening  to  the  distant 
sea.  From  the  bridges  rearing  high  over  the  river,  lights 
by  thousands  sparkled  down.  But  directly  below  the  spot 
where  they  stood  was  only  a  dull  hazy  glow,  rising  out  of 
dark  tenement  streets  where  dimly  they  could  just  make 
out  numberless  moving  shadowy  forms,  restless  crowds 
too  hot  to  sleep.  The  roofs  were  covered  everywhere  with 
men  and  women  and  children — families,  families,  families, 
all  merged  together  in  the  dark.  And  from  them  rose  into 
the  night  a  ceaseless  murmur  of  voices,  laughing  and  jok 
ing,  quarreling,  loving  and  hating,  demanding,  complain 
ing,  and  fighting  and  slaving  and  scheming  for  bread  and 
the  means  of  stark  existence.  But  among  these  struggling 
multitudes  confusedly  did  Roger  feel  the  brighter  presence 
here  and  there  of  more  aspiring  figures,  small  groups  in 
glaring,  stifling  rooms  down  there  beneath  the  murky 
dark,  young  people  fiercely  arguing,  groping  blindly  for 
new  gods.  And  all  these  voices,  to  his  ears,  merged  into 
one  deep  thrilling  hum,  these  lights  into  one  quivering 
glow,  that  went  up  toward  the  silent,  stars. 

And  there  came  to  him  a  feeling  which  he  had  often  had 
before  in  many  different  places — that  he  himself  was  a 
part  of  all  this,  the  great,  blind,  wistful  soul  of  mankind, 
which  had  been  here  before  he  was  born  and  would  be  here 
when  he  was  dead — still  groping,  yearning,  struggling 
upward,  on  and  on — to  something  distant  as  the  sun. 
And  still  would  he  be  a  part  of  it  all,  through  the  eager 
lives  of  his  children.  He  turned  and  looked  at  Deborah 
and  caught  the  light  that  was  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ROGER  awoke  the  next  morning  feeling  sore  and  weary, 
and  later  in  his  office  it  was  hard  to  keep  his  mind  on  his 
work.  He  thought  of  young  Isadore  Freedom.  He  was 
glad  he  had  met  that  boy,  and  so  he  felt  toward  Deborah's 
whole  terrific  family.  Confused  and  deafening  as  it  was, 
there  was  something  inspiring  in  it  all.  But  God  save 
him  from  many  such  evenings!  For  half  his  life  Roger 
had  been  a  collector,  not  only  of  rings  but  of  people,  too, 
of  curious  personalities.  These  human  bits,  these  mem 
ories,  he  had  picked  up  as  he  lived  along  and  had  taken 
them  with  him  and  made  them  his  own,  had  trimmed  and 
polished  every  one  until  its  rough  unpleasant  edges  were 
all  nicely  smoothed  away  and  it  glittered  and  shone  like 
the  gem  that  it  was.  For  Roger  was  an  idealist.  And  so 
he  would  have  liked  to  do  here.  What  a  gem  could  be  made 
of  Isadore  with  a  little  careful  polishing. 

But  Deborah's  way  was  different.  She  stayed  in  life, 
lived  in  it  close,  with  its  sharp  edges  bristling.  In  this  there 
was  something  splendid,  but  there  was  something  tragic, 
too.  It  was  all  very  well  for  that  young  Jew  to  burn  him 
self  up  with  his  talk  about  freedom,  his  feverish  searching 
for  new  gods.  "In  five  years,"  Roger  told  himself,  "Mr. 
Isadore  Freedom  will  either  tone  down  or  go  stark  mad." 
But  quite  probably  he  would  tone  down,  for  he  was  only 
a  youngster,  these  were  Isadore's  wild  oats.  But  this  was 
no  longer  Deborah's  youth,  she  had  been  at  this  job  ten 
years.  And  she  hadn't  gone  mad,  she  had  kept  herself 
sane,  she  had  many  sides  her  father  knew.  He  knew 
her  in  the  mountains,  or  bustling  about  at  home  getting 

96 


HIS  FAMILY  97 

ready  for  Laura's  wedding,  or  packing  Edith's  children 
off  for  their  summer  up  at  the  farm.  But  did  that  make 
it  any  easier?  No.  To  let  yourself  go  was  easy,  but  to 
keep  hold  of  yourself  was  hard.  It  meant  wear  and  tear 
on  a  woman,  this  constant  straining  effort  to  keep  her 
balance  and  see  life  whole. 

"Well,  it  will  break  her  down,  that's  all,  and  I  don't 
propose  to  allow  it,"  he  thought.  "She's  got  to  rest  this 
summer  and  go  easier  next  fall." 

But  how  could  he  accomplish  it?  As  he  thought  about 
her  school,  with  its  long  and  generous  arms  reaching  upon 
every  side  out  into  the  tenements,  the  prospect  was  be 
wildering.  He  searched  for  something  definite.  What 
could  he  do  to  prove  to  his  daughter  his  real  interest  in 
her  work?  Presently  he  remembered  Johnny  Geer,  the 
cripple  boy  whom  he  had  liked,  and  at  once  he  began  to 
feel  himself  back  again  upon  known  ground.  Instead  of 
millions  here  was  one,  one  plucky  lad  who  needed  help. 
All  right,  by  George,  he  should  have  it!  And  Roger  told 
his  daughter  he  would  be  glad  to  pay  the  expense  of 
sending  John  away  for  the  summer,  and  that  in  the  autumn 
perhaps  he  would  take  the  lad  into  his  office. 

"That's  good  of  you,  dearie,"  Deborah  said.  It  was 
her  only  comment,  but  from  the  look  she  gave  him  Roger 
felt  he  was  getting  on. 

One  evening  not  long  afterwards,  as  they  sat  together  at 
dinner,  she  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet  and  said  in  a  breath 
less  voice, 

"It's  rather  close  in  here,  isn't  it?  I  think  I'll  go  outside 
for  a  while."  Roger  jumped  up. 

"Look  here,  my  child,  you're  faint!"  he  cried. 

"No,  no,  it's  nothing!  Just  the  heat!"  She  swayed 
and  reeled,  pitched  suddenly  forward.  "Father!  Quick!" 
And  Roger  caught  her  in  his  arms.  He  called  to  the  maid, 
and  with  her  help  he  carried  Deborah  up  to  her  bed.  There 


98  HIS  FAMILY 

she  shuddered  violently  and  beads  of  sweat  broke  out  on 
her  brow.  Her  breath  came  hard  through  chattering 
teeth. 

"It's  so  silly!"  she  said  fiercely. 

But  as  moments  passed  the  chill  grew  worse.  Her  whole 
body  seemed  to  be  shaking,  and  as  Roger  was  rubbing 
one  of  her  arms  she  said  something  to  him  sharply,  in  a 
voice  so  thick  he  could  not  understand. 

"  What  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"I  can't  feel  anything." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"In  my  arm  where  you're  rubbing — I  can't  feel  your 
hand." 

"You'd  better  have  a  doctor!" 

"Telephone  Allan — -Allan  Baird.  He  knows  about 
this,"  she  muttered.  And  Roger  ran  down  to  the  tele 
phone.  He  was  thoroughly  frightened. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Gale,"  came  Baird's  gruff  bass,  steady 
and  slow,  "I  think  I  know  what  the  trouble  is — and  I 
wouldn't  worry  if  I  were  you.  I'll  be  there  in  about  ten 
minutes."  And  it  was  hardly  more  than  that  when  he 
came  into  Deborah's  room.  A  moment  he  looked  down 
at  her. 

"Again?"  he  said.  She  glanced  up  at  him  and  nodded, 
and  smiled  quickly  through  set  teeth.  Baird  carefully 
examined  her  and  then  turned  to  Roger:  "Now  I  guess 
you'd  better  go  out.  You  stay,"  he  added  to  Sarah,  the 
maid.  "I  may  need  you  here  awhile." 

About  an  hour  later  he  came  down  to  Roger's 
study. 

"She's  safe  enough  now,  I  guess,"  he  said.  "I've  tele 
phoned  for  a  nurse  for  her,  and  she'll  have  to  stay  in  bed 
a  few  days." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Acute  indigestion." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Roger  brightly,  with  a 


HIS  FAMILY  99 

rush  of  deep  relief.  Baird  gave  him  a  dry  quizzical 
smile. 

" People  have  died  of  that,"  he  remarked,  "in  less  than 
an  hour.  We  caught  your  daughter  just  in  time.  May 
I  stay  a  few  moments?" 

"Glad  to  have  you!    Smoke  a  cigar!" 

"Thanks — I  will."  As  Baird  reached  out  for  the  prof 
fered  cigar,  Roger  suddenly  noticed  his  hand.  Long  and 
muscular,  finely  shaped,  it  seemed  to  speak  of  strength  and 
skill  and  an  immense  vitality.  Baird  settled  himself  in 
his  chair.  "I  want  to  talk  about  her,"  he  said.  "This 
little  attack  is  only  a  symptom — it  comes  from  nerves. 
She's  just  about  ready  for  a  smash.  She's  had  slighter 
attacks  of  this  kind  before." 

"I  never  knew  it,"  Roger  said. 

"No — I  don't  suppose  you  did.  Your  daughter  has 
a  habit  of  keeping  things  like  this  to  herself.  She  came 
to  me  and  I  warned  her,  but  she  wanted  to  finish  out  her 
year.  Do  you  know  anything  about  her  school  work?" 

"Yes,  I  was  with  her  there  this  week." 

"What  did  she  show  you?"  Baird  inquired.  Roger 
tried  to  tell  him.  "No,  that's  not  what  I'm  after,"  he 
said.  "  That's  just  one  of  her  usual  evenings."  For  a 
moment  he  smoked  in  silence.  "I'm  hunting  now  for 
something  else,  for  some  unusual  nervous  shock  which 
she  appears  to  me  to  have  had." 

"She  has!"  And  Roger  told  him  of  her  visit  up  to  Sing 
Sing.  Baird's  lean  muscular  right  hand  slowly  tightened 
on  his  chair. 

"That's  a  tough  family  of  hers,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,"  said  Roger  determinedly,  "and  she's  got  to  give 
it  up." 

"You  mean  she  ought  to.    But  she  won't." 

"She's  got  to  be  made  to,"  Roger  growled.  "This 
summer  at  least."  Baird  shook  his  head. 

"You  forget  her  fresh  air  work,"  he  replied.    "She  has 


100  HIS  FAMILY 

three  thousand  children  on  her  mind.  The  city  will  be 
like  a  furnace,  of  course,  and  the  children  must  be  sent 
to  camps.  If  you  don't  see  the  necessity,  go  and  talk  to 
her,  and  then  you  will." 

"But  you  can  forbid  it,  can't  you?" 

"No.    Can  you?" 

"I  can  try,"  snapped  Roger. 

"Let's  try  what's  possible,"  said  Baird.  "Let's  try  to 
keep  her  in  bed  three  days." 

"Sounds  modest,"  Roger  grunted.  And  a  glimmer  of 
amusement  came  into  Baird's  impassive  eyes. 

"Try  it,"  he  drawled.  "By  to-morrow  night  she'll  ask 
for  her  stenographer.  She'll  make  you  think  she  is  out 
of  the  woods.  But  she  won't  be,  please  remember  that. 
A  few  years  more,"  he  added,  "and  she'll  have  used  up 
her  vitality.  She'll  be  an  old  woman  at  thirty-five." 

"It's  got  to  be  stopped!"  cried  Roger. 

"But  how?"  came  the  low  sharp  retort.  "You've  got 
to  know  her  trouble  first.  And  her  trouble  is  deep,  it's 
motherhood — on  a  scale  which  has  never  been  tried  before — • 
for  thousands  of  children,  all  of  whom  are  living  in  a  kind 
of  hell.  I  know  your  daughter  pretty  well.  Don't  make 
the  mistake  of  mixing  her  up  with  the  old-fashioned 
teacher.  It  isn't  what  those  children  learn,  it's  how  they 
live  that  interests  her,  and  how  they  are  all  growing  up.  I 
say  she's  a  mother — in  spirit — but  her  body  has  never 
borne  a  child.  And  that  makes  it  worse — because  it  makes 
her  more  intense.  It  isn't  natural,  you  see." 

A  little  later  he  rose  to  go. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  at  the  door,  "there's  something 
I  meant  to  tell  her  upstairs — about  a  poor  devil  she  has 
on  her  mind.  A  chap  named  Berry — dying — 'lungs.  She 
asked  me  to  go  and  see  him." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  found  it  was  only  a  matter  of  days."  The  tragic  pity 
in  Baird's  quiet  voice  was  so  deep  as  barely  to  be  heard. 


HIS  FAMILY  101 

"So  I  shot  him  full  of  morphine.     He  won't  wake  up. 
Please  tell  her  that." 

Tall,  ungainly,  motionless,  he  loomed  there  in  the  door 
way.  With  a  little  shrug  and  a  smile  he  turned  and  went 
slowly  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DEBORAH'S  recovery  was  rapid  and  determined.  The 
next  night  she  was  sitting  up  and  making  light  of  her 
illness.  On  the  third  day  she  dismissed  her  nurse,  and 
when  her  father  came  home  from  his  office  he  found 
gathered  about  her  bed  not  only  her  stenographer  but 
both  her  assistant  principals.  He  frowned  severely  and 
went  to  his  room,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  heard  them 
leave.  Presently  she  called  to  him,  and  he  came  to  her 
bedside.  She  was  lying  back  on  the  pillow  with  rather  a 
guilty  expression. 

"Up  to  your  old  antics,  eh?"  he  remarked. 

"  Exactly.  It  couldn't  be  helped,  you  see.  It's  the  last 
week  of  our  school  year,  and  there  are  so  many  little 
things  that  have  to  be  attended  to.  It's  simply  now  or 
never." 

"Humph!"  was  Roger's  comment.  "It's  now  or  never 
with  you,"  he  thought.  He  went  down  to  his  dinner, 
and  when  he  came  back  he  found  her  exhausted.  In  the 
dim  soft  light  of  her  room  her  face  looked  flushed  and 
feverish,  and  vaguely  he  felt  she  was  in  a  mood  where  she 
might  listen  to  reason.  He  felt  her  hot  dry  hand  on  his. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  she  was  smiling. 

"Tell  me  the  news  from  the  mountains,"  she  said. 
And  he  gave  her  the  gossip  of  the  farm  in  a  letter  he  had 
had  from  George.  It  told  of  a  picnic  supper,  the  first  one 
of  the  season.  They  had  had  it  in  the  usual  place,  down 
by  the  dam  on  the  river,  "with  a  bonfire — a  perfect  peach 
— down  by  the  big  yellow  rock — the  one  you  call  the 
Elephant."  As  Roger  read  the^  letter  he  could  feel  his 

102 


HIS  FAMILY  103 

daughter  listening,  vividly  picturing  to  herself  the  great 
dark  boulders  by  the  creek,  the  shadowy  firs,  the 
stars  above  and  the  cool  fresh  tang  of  the  mountain 
night. 

"  After  this  little  sickness  of  yours — and  that  harum 
scarum  wedding,"  he  said,  "I  feel  we're  both  entitled  to  a 
good  long  rest  in  mountain  air." 

"  We'll  have  it,  too,"  she  murmured. 

"With  Edith's  little  youngsters.  They're  all  the  medi 
cine  you  need."  He  paused  for  a  moment,  hesitating. 
But  it  was  now  or  never.  "The  only  trouble  with  you," 
he  said,  "is  that  you've  let  yourself  be  caught  by  the  same 
disease  which  has  its  grip  upon  this  whole  infernal  town. 
You're  like  everyone  else,  you're  tackling  about  forty 
times  what  you  can  do.  You're  actually  trying  not  only 
to  teach  but  to  bring  'em  all  up  as  your  own,  three  thou 
sand  tenement  children.  And  this  is  where  it  gets  you." 
Again  he  halted,  frowning.  What  next? 

"Go  on,  dear,  please,"  said  Deborah,  in  demure  and 
even  tones.  "This  is  very  interesting." 

"Now  then,"  he  continued,  "in  this  matter  of  your 
school.  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  give  it  up,  I've  already  seen 
too  much  of  it.  But  so  long  as  you've  got  it  nicely 
started,  why  not  give  somebody  else  a  chance?  One  of 
those  assistants  of  yours,  for  example — capable  young 
women,  both.  You  could  stand  right  behind  'em  with 
help  and  advice — " 

"Not  yet,"  was  Deborah's  soft  reply.  She  had  turned 
her  head  on  her  pillow  and  was  looking  at  him  affection 
ately.  "Why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  it's  not  nicely  started  at  all.  There's  nothing 
brilliant  about  me,  dear — I'm  a  plodder,  feeling  my  way 
along.  And  what  I  have  done  in  the  last  ten  years  is  just 
coming  to  a  stage  at  last  where  I  can  really  see  a  chance  to 
make  it  count  for  something.  When  I  feel  I've  done  that, 
say  in  five  years  more — " 


104  HIS  FAMILY 

"Those  five  years,"  said  her  father,  "may  cost  you  a 
very  heavy  price."  As  Deborah  faced  his  troubled  regard, 
her  own  grew  quickly  serious. 

"I'd  be  willing  to  pay  the  price,"  she  replied. 

"But  why?"  he  asked  with  impatience.  "Why  pay 
when  you  don't  have  to?  Why  not  by  taking  one  year  off 
get  strength  for  twenty  years'  work  later  on?  You'd  be  a 
different  woman!" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  should  be.  I'd  never  be  the  same  again. 
You  don't  quite  understand,  you  see.  This  work  of  mine 
with  children — well,  it's  like  Edith's  having  a  baby.  You 
have  to  do  it  while  you're  young." 

"That  works  both  ways,"  her  father  growled. 

"What  do  you  mean?"    He  hesitated: 

"Don't  you  want  any  children  of  your  own?" 

Again  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  his,  then  closed  them 
and  lay  perfectly  still.  "Now  I've  done  it,"  he  thought 
anxiously.  She  reached  over  and  took  his  hand. 

"Let's  talk  of  our  summer's  vacation,"  she  said. 

A  little  while  later  she  fell  asleep. 

Downstairs  he  soon  grew  restless  and  after  a  time  he 
went  out  for  a  walk.  But  he  felt  tired  and  oppressed,  and 
as  he  had  often  done  of  late  he  entered  a  little  "movie" 
nearby,  where  gradually  the  pictures,  continually  flashing 
out  of  the  dark,  drove  the  worries  from  his  mind.  For  a 
half  an  hour  they  held  his  gaze.  Then  he  fell  into  a  doze. 
He  was  roused  by  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  straightening  up 
in  his  seat  with  a  jerk  he  looked  angrily  around.  Some 
thing  broadly  comic  had  been  flashed  upon  the  screen; 
and  men  and  women  and  children,  Italians,  Jews  and  Irish, 
jammed  in  close  about  him,  a  dirty  and  perspiring  mass, 
had  burst  into  a  terrific  guffaw.  Now  they  were  sud 
denly  tense  again  and  watching  the  screen  in  absorbed 
suspense,  while  the  crude  passions  within  themselves  were 
played  upon  in  the  glamorous  dark.  And  Roger  scanned 
their  faces — one  moment  smiling,  all  together,  as  though 


HIS  FAMILY  105 

some  god  had  pulled  a  string;  then  mawkish,  sentimental, 
soft;  then  suddenly  scowling,  twitching,  with  long  rows  of 
animal  eyes.  But  eager — eager  all  the  time!  Hungry 
people — yes,  indeed!  Hungry  for  all  the  good  things  in 
the  town,  and  for  as  many  bad  things,  too!  On  one  who 
tried  to  feed  this  mob  there  was  no  end  to  their  demands! 
What  was  one  woman's  life  to  them?  Deborah's  big 
family! 

Edith  came  to  the  house  one  afternoon,  and  she  was 
in  Deborah's  room  when  her  father  returned  from  his 
office.  Her  convalescence  over  at  last,  she  was  leaving  for 
the  mountains. 

"Do  learn  your  lesson,  Deborah  dear,"  she  urged  upon 
her  sister.  "Let  Sarah  pack  your  trunk  at  once  and  come 
up  with  me  on  Saturday  night." 

"I  can't  get  off  for  two  weeks  yet." 

"Why  can't  you?"  Edith  demanded.  And  when 
Deborah  spoke  of  fresh  air  camps  and  baby  farms  and 
other  work,  Edith's  impatience  only  grew.  "You'll  have 
to  leave  it  to  somebody  else!  You're  simply  in  no 
condition!"  she  cried. 

"Impossible,"  said  Deborah.  Edith  gave  a  quick  sigh 
of  exasperation. 

"Isn't  it  enough,"  she  asked,  "to  have  worked  your 
nerves  to  a  frazzle  already?  Why  can't  you  be  sensible? 
You've  got  to  think  of  yourself  a  little!" 

"You'd  like  me  to  marry,  wouldn't  you,  dear?"  her 
sister  put  in  wearily. 

"Yes,  I  should,  while  there  is  still  time!  Just  now  you 
look  far  from  it!  It's  exactly  as  Allan  was  saying!  If 
you  keep  on  as  you're  going  you'll  be  an  old  woman  at 
thirty-five!" 

"Thank  you!"  said  Deborah  sharply.  Two  spots  of 
color  leaped  in  her  checks.  "You'd  better  leave  me, 
Edith!  I'll  come  up  to  the  mountains  as  soon  as  I  can! 


106  HIS  FAMILY 

And  I'll  try  not  to  look  any  more  like  a  hag  than  I  have  to! 
Good-night!" 

Roger  followed  Edith  out  of  the  room. 

"That  last  shot  of  mine  struck  home,"  she  declared  to 
him  in  triumph. 

"I  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  her  father  said.  "I  gave 
you  that  remark  of  Baird's  in  strict  confidence,  Edith — " 

"Now  father,"  was  her  good-humored  retort,  "suppose 
you  leave  this  matter  to  me.  I  know  just  what  I'm  doing." 

"Well,"  he  reflected  uneasily,  after  she  had  left  him, 
"here's  more  trouble  in  the  family.  If  Edith  isn't  careful 
she'll  make  a  fine  mess  of  this  whole  affair." 

After  dinner  he  went  up  to  Deborah's  room,  but  through 
the  open  doorway  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  daughter 
which  made  him  instinctively  draw  back.  Sitting  bolt 
upright  in  her  bed,  sternly  she  was  eyeing  herself  in  a  small 
mirror  in  her  hand.  Her  father  chuckled  noiselessly.  A 
moment  later,  when  he  went  in,  the  glass  had  disappeared 
from  view.  Soon  afterwards  Baird  himself  arrived,  and 
as  they  heard  him  coming  upstairs  Roger  saw  his  daughter 
frown,  but  she  continued  talking. 

"Hello,  Allan,"  she  said  with  indifference.  "I'm  feeling 
much  better  this  evening." 

"Are  you?  Good,"  he  answered,  and  he  started  to  pull 
up  an  easy  chair.  "I  was  hoping  I  could  stay  awhile — • 
I've  been  having  one  of  those  long  mean  days — •" 

"I'd  a  little  rather  you  wouldn't,"  Deborah  put  in 
softly.  Allan  turned  to  her  in  surprise.  "I  didn't  sleep 
last  night,"  she  murmured,  "and  I  feel  so  drowsy."  There 
was  a  little  silence.  "And  I  really  don't  think  there's  any 
need  of  your  dropping  in  to-morrow,"  she  added.  "  I'm  so 
much  better — honestly." 

Baird  looked  at  her  a  moment. 

"Right— O,"  he  answered  slowly.  "I'll  call  up  to-mor 
row  night." 

Roger  followed  him  downstairs. 


HIS  FAMILY  107 

"Come  into  my  den  and  smoke  a  cigar!"  he  proposed 
in  hearty  ringing  tones.  Allan  thanked  him  and  came 
in,  but  the  puzzled  expression  was  still  on  his  face,  and 
through  the  first  moments  of  their  talk  he  was  very  absent- 
minded.  Roger's  feeling  of  guilt  increased,  and  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  meddlesome  fool. 

"Look  here,  Baird,"  he  blurted  out,  "there's  something 
I  think  you  ought  to  know."  Allan  slightly  turned  his 
head,  and  Roger  reddened  a  little.  "The  worst  thing 
about  living  in  a  house  chock  full  of  meddling  women  is 
that  you  get  to  be  one  yourself,"  he  growled.  "And  the 
fact  is — "  he  cleared  his  throat — "I've  put  my  foot  in  it, 
Baird,"  he  said.  "I  was  fool  enough  the  other  day  to  quote 
you  to  Edith." 

"To  what  effect?" 

"That  if  Deborah  keeps  on  like  this  she'll  be  an  old 
woman  at  thirty-five." 

Allan  sat  up  in  his  chair: 

"Was  Edith  here  this  afternoon?" 

"She  was,"  said  Roger. 

"Say  no  more." 

Baird  had  a  wide,  likable,  generous  mouth  which  wrinkled 
easily  into  a  smile.  He  leaned  back  now  and  enjoyed  him 
self.  He  puffed  a  little  cloud  of  sinoke,  looked  over 
at  Roger  and  chuckled  aloud.  And  Roger  chuckled  with 
relief.  "What  a  decent  chap  he  is,"  he  thought. 

"I'm  sorry,  of  course,"  he  said  to  Baird.  "I  thought  of 
trying  to  explain — " 

"Don't,"  said  Allan.  "Leave  it  alone.  It  won't  do 
Deborah  any  harm — may  even  do  her  a  little  good.  After 
all,  I'm  her  physician — " 

"Are  you?"  Roger  asked  with  a  twinkle.  "I  thought 
upstairs  you  were  dismissed." 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not,"  was  the  calm  reply.  And  the  two 
men  went  on  smoking.  Roger's  liking  for  Baird  was  grow 
ing  fast.  They  had  had  several  little  talks  during  Deb- 


108  HIS  FAMILY 

orah's  illness,  and  Roger  was  learning  more  of  the  man. 
Raised  on  a  big  cattle  ranch  that  his  father  had  owned 
in  New  Mexico,  riding  broncos  on  the  plains  had  given 
him  his  abounding  health  of  body,  nerve  and  spirit,  his 
steadiness  and  sanity  in  all  this  feverish  city  life. 

"Are  you  riding  these  days?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  said  Roger,  "the  park  is  too  hot — and  they 
don't  sprinkle  the  path  as  they  should.  I've  had  my 
cob  sent  up  to  the  mountains.  By  the  way,"  he  added 
cordially,  "you  must  come  up  there  and  ride  with 
me." 

"Thanks,  I'd  like  to,"  Allan  said,  and  with  a  little  inner 
smile  he  added  dryly  to  himself,  "He's  getting  ready  to 
meddle  again."  But  whatever  amusement  Baird  had  in 
this  thought  was  concealed  behind  his  sober  gray  eyes. 
Soon  after  that  he  took  his  leave. 

"Now  then,"  Roger  reflected,  with  a  little  glow  of 
expectancy,  "if  Edith  will  only  leave  me  alone,  she  may 
find  I'm  smarter  than  she  thinks!" 

One  evening  in  the  following  week,  after  Edith  had  left 
town,  Roger  had  Bruce  to  dine  at  his  club,  a  pleasant  old 
building  on  Madison  Square,  where  comfortably  all  by 
themselves  they  could  discuss  Baird's  chances. 

"A.  Baird  and  I  have  been  chums,"  said  Bruce,  "ever 
since  we  were  in  college.  Take  it  from  me  I  know  his 
brand.  And  he  isn't  the  kind  to  be  pushed." 

"Who  wants  to  push  him?"  Roger  demanded,  with  a 
sudden  guilty  twinge. 

"Edith  does,"  Bruce  answered.  "And  I  tell  you  that 
won't  do  with  A.  Baird.  He  has  his  mind  set  on  Deborah 
sure.  He's  been  setting  it  harder  and  harder  for  months — 
and  he  knows  it — and  so  does  she.  But  they're  both  the 
kind  of  people  who  don't  like  interference,  they've  got 
to  get  to  it  by  themselves.  Edith  must  keep  out  of  the  way. 
She  mustn't  take  it  on  herself  to  ask  him  up  to  the  moun- 


HIS  FAMILY  109 

tains."  Roger  gave  a  little  start.  "If  she  does,  there'll 
be  trouble  with  Deborah." 

Roger  smoked  for  a  moment  in  silence  and  then  sagely 
nodded  his  head. 

"That's  so,"  he  murmured  thoughtfully.  "Yes,  my 
boy,  I  guess  you're  right." 

Bruce  lifted  his  mint  julep: 

"God,  but  it's  hot  in  here  to-night.  How  about  taking 
a  spin  up  the  river?" 

"Delighted,"  replied  his  father-in-law. 

And  a  half  hour  later  in  Bruce's  new  car,  which  was 
the  pride  and  joy  of  his  life,  they  were  far  up  the  river. 
On  a  long  level  stretch  of  road  Bruce  "let  her  out  to  show 
what  she  could  do."  And  Roger  with  his  heart  in  his 
mouth  and  his  eye  upon  the  speedometer,  saw  it  creep 
to  sixty-three. 

"Almost  as  good  as  a  horse,"  remarked  Bruce,  when 
the  car  had  slowed  a  little. 

"Almost,"  said  Roger,  "but  not  quite.  It's — well,  it's 
dissipation." 

"And  a  horse?" 

"Is  life,"  was  the  grave  reply.  "You'll  have  a  crash 
some  day,  my  boy,  if  you  go  on  at  your  present  speed.  It 
gets  me  worried  sometimes.  You  see  you're  a  family  man." 

"I  am  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  Edith  and  the  kiddies  suit 
me  right  down  to  the  ground.  I'm  crazy  about  'em — you 
know  that.  But  a  chap  with  a  job  like  mine,"  Bruce  con 
tinued  pleadingly,  as  he  drove  his  car  rushing  around  a 
curve,  "needs  a  little  dissipation,  too.  I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  means  to  me,  when  I'm  kept  late  at  the  office,  to 
have  this  car  for  the  run  up  home.  Lower  Broadway's 
empty  then,  and  I  know  the  cops.  I  swing  around  through 
Washington  Square,  and  the  Avenue  looks  clear  for  miles, 
nothing  but  two  long  rows  of  lights  to  the  big  hump  at 
Murray  Hill.  It's  the  time  between  crowds — say  about 
ten.  And  I  know  the  cops." 


110  HIS  FAMILY 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Roger.  "No  one  was  more  de 
lighted  than  I  when  you  got  this  car.  You  deserve  it. 
It's  the  work  that  I  was  speaking  of.  You've  got  it  going 
at  such  a  speed — " 

"Only  way  on  earth  to  get  on — to  get  what  I  want  for 
my  family — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  muttered  Roger  vaguely.  Bruce 
began  talking  of  his  work  for  the  steel  construction  con 
cern  downtown. 

"Take  it  from  me,"  he  declared  at  the  end,  "this  town 
has  only  just  begun!" 

"Has,  eh,"  Roger  grunted.  "Aren't  the  buildings  high 
enough?" 

"  My  God,  I  wish  they  were  twenty  times  higher,"  Bruce 
rejoined  good-humoredly.  "But  they  won't  be — we've 
stopped  going  up.  We've  done  pretty  well  in  the  air,  and 
now  we're  going  underground.  And  when  we  get  through, 
this  old  rock  of  Manhattan  will  be  such  a  network  of  tun 
nels  there'll  be  a  hole  waiting  at  every  corner  to  take  you 
wherever  you  want  to  go.  Speed?  We  don't  even  know 
what  it  means!" 

And  again  Bruce  "let  her  out"  a  bit.  It  was  quite  a  bit. 
Roger  grabbed  his  hat  with  one  hand  and  the  side  of  the 
car  with  the  other. 

"They'll  look  back  on  a  mile  a  minute,"  said  Bruce, 
"as  we  look  back  on  stage  coach  days!  And  in  the  rush 
hour  there'll  be  a  rush  that'll  make  you  think  of  pneumatic 
tubes!  Not  a  sound  nor  a  quiver — just  pure  speed!  Shoot 
ing  people  home  at  night  at  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  an 
hour!  The  city  will  be  as  big  as  that!  And  there  won't 
be  any  accidents  and  there  won't  be  any  smoke.  Instead 
of  coal  they'll  use  the  sun !  And,  my  God,  man,  the  boule 
vards — and  parks  and  places  for  the  kids !  The  way  they'll 
use  the  River — and  the  ocean  and  the  Sound !  The  Cats- 
kills  will  be  Central  Park!  Sounds  funny,  don't  it — but 
it's  true.  I've  studied  it  out  from  A  to  Z.  This  town  is 


HIS  FAMILY  111 

choking  itself  to  death  simply  because  we're  so  damn 
slow!  We  don't  know  how  to  spread  ourselves!  All  this 
city  needs  is  speed!" 

"Bruce,"  said  Roger  anxiously,  "just  go  a  bit  easy  on 
that  gas.  The  fact  is,  it  was  a  great  mistake  for  me  to  eat 
those  crabs  to-night." 

Bruce  slowed  down  compassionately,  and  soon  they 
turned  and  started  home.  And  as  they  drew  near  the 
glow  of  the  town,  other  streets  and  boulevards  poured 
more  motors  into  the  line,  until  at  last  they  were  rushing 
along  amid  a  perfect  bedlam  made  up  of  honks  and  shrieks 
of  horns.  The  air  grew  hot  and  acrid,  and  looking  back 
through  the  bluish  haze  of  smoke  and  dust  behind  him 
Roger  could  see  hundreds  of  huge  angry  motor  eyes. 
Crowding  and  jamming  closer,  pell  mell,  at  a  pace  which 
barely  slackened,  they  sped  on,  a  wild  uproarious  crew, 
and  swept  into  the  city. 

Roger  barely  slept  that  night.  He  felt  the  city  clamor 
ing  down  into  his  very  soul.  "Speed!"  he  muttered  vi 
ciously.  "Speed — speed!  We  need  more  speed!"  The 
words  beat  in  like  a  savage  refrain.  At  last  with  a  sigh 
of  impatience  he  got  up  in  his  nightshirt  and  walked 
about.  It  was  good  to  feel  his  way  in  the  dark  in  this  cool 
silent  house  which  he  knew  so  well.  Soon  his  nerves  felt 
quieter.  He  went  back  to  his  bed  and  lay  there  inert. 
How  good  it  would  be  to  get  up  to  the  farm. 

The  next  Saturday  evening,  with  Deborah,  he  started  for 
the  mountains.  And  Bruce  came  down  to  see  them  off. 

"Remember,  son,"  said  Roger,  as  the  two  walked  on  the 
platform.  "  Come  up  this  year  for  a  month,  my  boy.  You 
need  it."  The  train  was  about  to  start. 

" Oh,  I'll  be  all  right,"  was  the  answer.  "My  friend  the 
Judge,  who  has  hay  fever,  tells  me  he  has  found  a  cure." 

" Damn  his  cure !    You  come  to  us!" 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  live  and  learn.    The  Judge  is  quite 


112  HIS  FAMILY 

excited  about  it.  You  drink  little  bugs,  he  says,  a  billion 
after  every  meal.  They  come  in  tall  blue  bottles.  We're 
going  to  dine  together  next  week  and  drink  'em  till  we're 
all  lit  up.  Oh,  we're  going  to  have  a  hell  of  a  time.  His 
wife  left  town  on  Tuesday." 

"Bruce,"  said  Roger  sternly,  as  the  train  began  to  move, 
"leave  bugs  alone  and  come  up  and  breathe!  And  quit 
smoking  so  many  cigarettes!"  He  stepped  on  the  car. 
"Remember,  son,  a  solid  month!"  Bruce  nodded  as  the 
train  moved  out. 

"Good  luck — good-bye — fine  summer — my  love  to  the 
wife  and  the  kiddies — "  and  Bruce's  dark,  tense,  smiling 
face  was  left  behind.  Roger  went  back  into  the  smoker. 

"  Now  for  the  mountains,"  he  thought.    "  Thank  God ! " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  FEW  hours  later  Roger  awakened.  His  lower  berth 
was  still  pitch  dark.  The  train  had  stopped,  and  he  had 
been  roused  by  a  voice  outside  his  window.  Rough  and 
slow  and  nasal,  the  leisurely  drawl  of  a  mountaineer,  it 
came  like  balm  to  Roger's  ears.  He  raised  the  curtain  and 
looked  out.  A  train  hand  with  a  lantern  was  listening  to 
a  dairy  man,  a  tall  young  giant  in  top  boots.  High  over 
head  loomed  a  shadowy  mountain  and  over  its  rim  came 
the  glow  of  the  dawn.  With  a  violent  lurch  the  train 
moved  on.  And  Roger,  lying  back  on  his  pillow,  looked 
up  at  the  misty  mountain  sides  all  mottled  in  the  strange 
blue  light  with  patches  of  firs  and  birches  and  pines.  In 
the  narrow  valley  up  which  the  train  was  thundering, 
were  small  herds  of  grazing  cattle,  a  lonely  farmhouse 
here  and  there.  From  one  a  light  was  twinkling.  And  the 
city  with  its  heat  and  noise,  its  nervous  throb,  its  bedlam 
nights,  all  dropped  like  a  fever  from  his  soul. 

Now,  close  by  the  railroad  track,  through  a  shallow 
rocky  gorge  a  small  river  roared  and  foamed.  Its  cool 
breath  came  up  to  his  nostrils  and  gratefully  he  breathed 
it  in.  For  this  was  the  Gale  River,  named  after  one  of 
his  forefathers,  and  in  his  mind's  eye  he  followed  the 
stream  back  up  its  course  to  the  little  station  where  he  and 
Deborah  were  to  get  off.  There  the  narrowing  river  bed 
turned  and  wound  up  through  a  cleft  in  the  hills  to  the 
homestead  several  miles  away.  On  the  dark  forest  road 
beside  it  he  pictured  George,  his  grandson,  at  this  moment 
driving  down  to  meet  them  in  a  mountain  wagon  with  one 
of  the  two  hired  men,  a  lantern  swinging  under  the  wheels. 
What  an  adventure  for  young  George. 

113 


114  HIS  FAMILY 

Presently  he  heard  Deborah  stirring  in  the  berth  next 
to  his  own. 

At  the  station  George  was  there,  and  from  a  thermos 
bottle  which  Edith  had  filled  the  night  before  he  poured 
coffee  piping  hot,  which  steamed  in  the  keen,  frosty 
air. 

"Oh,  how  good!"  cried  Deborah.  "How  thoughtful 
of  your  mother,  George.  How  is  she,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right,  Aunt  Deborah."  His  blunt  freckled 
features  flushed  from  his  drive,  George  stood  beaming  on 
them  both.  He  appeared,  if  anything,  tougher  and 
scrawnier  than  before.  "Everything's  all  right,"  he  said. 
"There  ain't  a  sick  animal  on  the  whole  farm." 

As  Roger  sipped  his  coffee  he  was  having  a  look  at  the 
horses.  One  of  them  was  William,  his  cob. 

"Do  you  see  it?"  inquired  his  grandson. 

"What?" 

"The  boil,"  George  answered  proudly,  "on  William's 
rump.  There  it  is — on  the  nigh  side.  Gee,  but  you  ought 
to  have  seen  it  last  week.  It  was  a  whale  of  a  boil,"  said 
George,  "but  we  poulticed  him,  me  and  Dave  did — and 
now  the  swelling's  nearly  gone.  You  can  ride  him  to 
morrow  if  you  like." 

Luxuriously  Roger  lit  a  cigar  and  climbed  to  the  front 
seat  with  George.  Up  the  steep  and  crooked  road  the 
stout  horses  tugged  their  way,  and  the  wagon  creaked, 
and  the  Gale  River,  here  only  a  brook,  came  gurgling, 
dashing  to  meet  them — down  from  the  mountains,  from 
the  farm,  from  Roger's  youth  to  welcome  him  home.  And 
the  sun  was  flashing  through  the  pines.  As  they  drew 
near  the  farmhouse  through  a  grove  of  sugar  maples,  he 
heard  shrill  cries  of,  "  There  they  come ! "  And  he  glimpsed 
the  flying  figures  of  George's  brothers,  Bob  and  Tad. 
George  whipped  up  the  horses,  the  wagon  gained  upon  the 
boys  and  reached  the  house  but  a  few  rods  behind  the  little 
runners.  Edith  was  waiting  by  the  door,  fresh  and  smiling, 


HIS  FAMILY  115 

blooming  with  health.  How  well  this  suited  her,  Roger 
thought.  Amid  a  gay  chorus  of  greetings  he  climbed  down 
heavily  out  of  the  wagon,  looked  about  him  and  drew 
a  deep  breath.  The  long  lazy  days  on  the  farm  had  be 
gun. 

From  the  mountain  side  the  farm  looked  down  on  a 
wide  sweeping  valley  of  woods  and  fields.  The  old  house 
straggled  along  the  road,  with  addition  after  addition  built 
on  through  generations  by  many  men  and  women.  Here 
lay  the  history,  unread,  of  the  family  of  Roger  Gale. 
Inside  there  were  steps  up  and  down  from  one  part  to 
another,  queer  crooks  in  narrow  passageways.  The  lower 
end  was  attached  to  the  woodshed,  and  the  woodshed  to 
the  barn.  Above  the  house  a  pasture  dotted  with  gray 
boulders  extended  up  to  a  wood  of  firs,  and  out  of  this 
wood  the  small  river  which  bore  the  name  of  the  family 
came  rushing  down  the  field  in  a  gully,  went  under  the 
road,  swept  around  to  the  right  and  along  the  edge  of  a 
birch  copse  just  below  the  house.  The  little  stream  grew 
quieter  there  and  widened  into  a  mill  pond.  At  the  lower 
end  was  a  broken  dam  and  beside  it  a  dismantled  mill. 

Here  was  peace  for  Roger's  soul.  The  next  day  at  dawn 
he  awakened,  and  through  the  window  close  by  his  bed  he 
saw  no  tall  confining  walls;  his  eye  was  carried  as  on  wings 
out  over  a  billowy  blanket  of  mist,  soft  and  white  and  cool 
and  still,  reaching  over  the  valley.  From  underneath  to 
his  sensitive  ears  came  the  numberless  voices  of  the 
awakening  sleepers  there,  cheeps  and  tremulous  warbles 
from  the  birch  copse  just  below,  cocks  crowing  in  the  val 
ley,  and  ducks  and  geese,  dogs,  sheep  and  cattle  faintly 
heard  from  distant  farms.  Just  so  it  had  been  when  he 
was  a  boy.  How  unchanged  and  yet  how  new  were  these 
fresh  hungry  cries  of  life.  From  the  other  end  of  the 
house  he  heard  Edith's  tiny  son  lustily  demanding  his 
breakfast,  as  other  wee  boys  before  him  had  done  for 
over  a  hundred  years,  as  other  babies  still  unborn  would 


116  HIS  FAMILY 

do  in  the  many  years  to  come.  Soon  the  cry  of  the  child 
was  hushed.  Quiet  fell  upon  the  house.  And  Roger  sank 
again  into  deep  happy  slumber. 

Here  was  nothing  new  and  disturbing.  Edith's  chil 
dren?  Yes,  they  were  new,  but  they  were  not  disturbing. 
Their  growth  each  summer  was  a  joy,  a  renewal  of  life  in 
the  battered  old  house.  Here  was  no  huge  tenement 
family  crowding  in  with  dirty  faces,  clamorous  demands  for 
aid,  but  only  five  delightful  youngsters,  clean  and  fresh, 
of  his  own  blood.  He  loved  the  small  excitements,  the 
plans  and  plots  and  discoveries,  the  many  adventures  that 
filled  their  days.  He  spent  hours  with  their  mother,  listen 
ing  while  she  talked  of  them.  Edith  did  so  love  this  place 
and  she  ran  the  house  so  beautifully.  It  was  so  cool  and 
fragrant,  so  clean  and  so  old-fashioned. 

Deborah,  too,  came  under  the  spell.  She  grew  as  lazy 
as  a  cat  and  day  by  day  renewed  her  strength  from  the  hills 
and  from  Edith's  little  brood.  Roger  had  feared  trouble 
there,  for  he  knew  how  Edith  disapproved  of  her  sis 
ter's  new  ideas.  But  although  much  with  the  children, 
Deborah  apparently  had  no  new  ideas  at  all.  She  seemed 
to  be  only  listening.  One  balmy  day  at  sunset,  Roger  saw 
her  lying  on  the  grass  with  George  sprawled  by  her  side. 
Her  head  upon  one  arm,  she  appeared  to  be  watching 
the  cattle  in  the  sloping  pasture  above.  Slowly,  as  though 
each  one  of  them  was  drawn  by  mysterious  unseen  chains, 
they  were  drifting  down  toward  the  barn  where  it  was 
almost  milking  time.  George  was  talking  earnestly.  She 
threw  a  glance  at  him  from  time  to  time,  and  Roger  could 
see  how  intent  were  her  eyes.  Yes,  Deborah  knew  how 
to  study  a  boy. 

Only  once  during  the  summer  did  she  talk  about  her 
work.  On  a  walk  with  her  father  one  day  she  took  him 
into  a  small  forlorn  building,  a  mere  cabin  of  one  room. 
The  white  paint  had  long  been  worn  away,  the  windows 
were  all  broken,  half  the  old  shingles  had  dropped  from 


HIS  FAMILY  117 

the  roof  and  on  the  flagpole  was  no  flag.  It  was  the  dis 
trict  schoolhouse  where  for  nearly  half  his  life  Deborah's 
grandfather  had  taught  a  score  of  pupils.  Inside  were  a 
blackboard,  a  rusty  stove,  a  teacher's  desk  and  a  dozen 
forms,  grown  mouldy  and  worm-eaten  now.  A  torn  and 
faded  picture  of  Lincoln  was  upon  one  wall,  half  hidden 
by  a  spider's  web  and  by  a  few  old  dangling  rags  which 
once  had  been  red,  white  and  blue.  Below,  still  clinging 
to  the  wall,  was  an  old  scrap  of  paper,  on  which  in  a  large 
rugged  hand  there  had  been  written  long  ago  a  speech, 
but  it  had  been  worn  away  until  but  three  words  were 
legible — "  conceived  and  dedicated — " 

"Tell  me  about  your  school,"  she  said.  "All  you  can 
remember."  Seated  at  her  grandfather's  desk  she  asked 
Roger  many  questions.  And  his  recollections,  at  first 
dim  and  hazy,  began  to  clear  a  little. 

"By  George!"  he  exclaimed.  "Here  are  my  initials!" 
He  stooped  over  one  of  the  benches. 

"Oh,  dearie!  Where?"  He  pointed  them  out,  and  then 
while  he  sat  on  the  rude  old  bench  for  some  time  more 
she  questioned  him. 

"But  your  school  was  not  all  here,"  she  said  musingly 
at  last,  "it  was  up  on  the  farm,  besides,  where  you 
learned  to  plough  and  sow  and  reap  and  take  care  of  the 
animals  in  the  barn,  and  mend  things  that  were  broken, 
and — oh,  turn  your  hand  to  anything.  But  millions  of 
children  nowadays  are  growing  up  in  cities,  you  see." 

Half  frowning  and  half  smiling  she  began  to  talk  of 
her  work  in  town.  "What  is  there  about  her,"  Roger 
asked,  "that  reminds  me  so  of  my  mother?"  His  mind 
strayed  back  into  the  past  while  the  low  quiet  voice  of  his 
daughter  went  on,  and  a  wistful  expression  crept  over  his 
face.  What  would  she  do  with  the  family  name?  What 
life  would  she  lead  in  those  many  years?  .  .  .  "What  a 
mother  she  would  make."  The  words  rose  from  within 
him,  but  in  a  voice  which  was  not  his  own.  It  was  Deb- 


118  HIS  FAMILY 

orah's  grandmother  speaking,  so  clearly  and  distinctly 
that  he  gave  a  start  almost  of  alarm. 

"And  if  you  don't  believe  they'll  do  it,"  Deborah  was 
saying,  "you  don't  know  what's  in  children.  Only  we've 
got  to  help  bring  it  out."  What  had  she  been  talking 
about?  He  remembered  the  words  "a  new  nation" — no 
more.  "We've  got  to  grope  around  in  the  dark  and  hunt 
for  new  ways  and  learn  as  we  go.  And  when  you've  once 
got  into  the  work  and  really  felt  the  thrill  of  it  all — well, 
then  it  seems  rather  foolish  and  small  to  bother  about 
your  own  little  life." 

Roger  spent  much  of  his  time  alone.  He  took  long  rides 
on,  William  along  crooked,  hilly  roads.  As  the  afternoon 
drew  to  its  end,  the  shadows  would  creep  up  the  mountain 
sides  to  their  summits  where  glowed  the  last  rays  of  the 
sun,  painting  the  slate  and  granite  crags  in  lovely  pink 
and  purple  hues.  And  sometimes  mighty  banks  of  clouds 
would  rear  themselves  high  overhead,  gigantic  mountains 
of  the  air  with  billowy,  misty  caverns,  cliffs  and  jagged 
peaks,  all  shifting  there  before  his  eyes.  And  he  would 
think  of  Judith  his  wife.  And  the  old  haunting  certainty, 
that  her  soul  had  died  with  her  body,  was  gone.  There 
came  to  him  the  feeling  that  he  and  his  wife  would  meet 
again.  Why  did  this  hope  come  back  to  him?  Was  it  all 
from  the  glory  of  the  sun?  Or  was  it  from  the  presence, 
silent  and  invisible,  of  those  many  other  mortals,  folk 
of  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  who  at  their  deaths  had  gone 
to  their  graves  to  put  on  immortality?  Or  was  this  deep 
ening  faith  in  Roger  simply  a  sign  of  his  growing  old  age? 
He  frowned  at  the  thought  and  shook  it  off,  and  again 
stared  up  at  the  light  on  the  hills.  "You  will  live  on  in 
our  children's  lives."  Was  there  no  other  immortality? 

He  often  thought  of  his  boyhood  here.  On  a  ride  one 
day  he  stopped  for  a  drink  at  a  spring  in  a  grove  of  maples 
surrounding  a  desolate  farmhouse  not  more  than  a  mile 


HIS  FAMILY  119 

away  from  his  own.  And  through  the  trees  as  he  turned 
to  go  he  saw  the  stark  figure  of  a  woman,  poorly  clad  and 
gaunt  and  gray.  She  stood  motionless  watching  him 
with  a  look  of  sullen  bitterness.  She  was  the  last  of 
"the  Elkinses,"  a  mountain  family  run  to  seed.  As  he 
rode  away  he  saw  in  the  field  a  boy  with  a  pitchfork  in  his 
hands,  a  meager  ragged  little  chap.  He  was  staring  into 
the  valley  at  a  wriggling,  blue  smoke  serpent  made  by  the 
night  express  to  New  York.  And  something  leaped  in 
Roger,  for  he  had  once  felt  just  like  that !  But  the  woman's 
harsh  voice  cut  in  on  his  dream,  as  she  shouted  to  her  son 
below,  "  Hey!  Why  the  hell  you  standin'  thar? "  And  the 
boy  with  a  jump  of  alarm  turned  back  quickly  to  his  work. 

At  home  a  few  days  later,  George  with  a  mysterious 
air  took  his  grandfather  into  the  barn,  and  after  a  pledge 
of  secrecy  he  said  in  swift  and  thrilling  tones, 

"You  know  young  Bill  Elkins?  Yes,  you  do — the  boy 
up  on  the  Elkins  place  who  lives  alone  with  his  mother. 
Well,  look  here!"  George  swallowed  hard.  "Bill  has 
cleared  out — he's  run  away!  I  was  up  at  five  this  morning 
and  he  came  hiking  down  the  road!  He  had  a  bundle  on 
his  back  and  he  told  me  he  was  off  for  good!  And  was  he 
scared?  You  bet  he  was  scared!  And  I  told  him  so  and 
it  made  him  mad!  ' Aw,  you're  scared!'  I  said.  'I  ain't 
neither!'  he  said.  He  could  barely  talk,  but  the  kid  had 
his  nerve!  'Where  you  going?'  I  asked.  'To  New  York/ 
he  said.  'Aw,  what  do  you  know  of  New  York?'  I  said. 
And  then,  by  golly,  he  busted  right  down.  ' Gee! '  he  said, 
'Gee!  Can't  you  lemme  alone?'  And  then  he  beat  it 
down  the  road!  You  could  hear  the  kid  breathe,  he  was 
hustling  so!  He's  way  off  now,  he's  caught  the  train !  He 
wants  to  be  a  cabin  boy  on  a  big  ocean  liner!"  For  a 
moment  there  was  silence.  "Well?"  the  boy  demanded, 
"What  do  you  think  of  his  chances?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Roger  huskily.  He  felt  a  tighten 
ing  at  his  throat.  Abruptly  he  turned  to  his  grandson. 


120  HIS  FAMILY 

" George,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you  want  to  be?"  The 
boy  flushed  under  his  freckles. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  know.  I'm  thinking/'  he  answered 
very  slowly. 

"Talk  it  over  with  your  mother,  son." 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  prompt  reply.  "But  he  won't," 
reflected  Roger. 

"Or  if  you  ever  feel  you  want  to,  have  a  good  long  talk 
with  me." 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  Roger  stood  there  waiting, 
then  turned  and  walked  slowly  out  of  the  barn.  How  these 
children  grew  up  inside  of  themselves.  Had  boys  always 
grown  like  that?  Well,  perhaps,  but  how  strange  it  was. 
Always  new  lives,  lives  of  their  own,  the  old  families 
scattering  over  the  land.  So  the  great  life  of  the  nation 
swept  on.  He  kept  noticing  here  deserted  farms,  and  one 
afternoon  in  the  deepening  dusk  he  rode  by  a  grave 
yard  high  up  on  a  bare  hillside.  A  horse  and  buggy  were 
outside,  and  within  he  spied  a  lean  young  woman  neatly 
dressed  in  a  plain  dark  suit.  With  a  lawn  mower  brought 
from  home  she  was  cutting  the  grass  on  her  family  lot. 
And  she  seemed  to  fit  into  the  landscape.  New  England 
had  grown  very  old. 

Late  one  night  toward  the  end  of  July,  there  came  a 
loud  honk  from  down  the  hill,  then  another  and  another. 
And  as  George  in  his  pajamas  carne  rushing  from  his  b'ed- 
room  shouting  radiantly,  "Gee!  It's  dad!" — they  heard 
the  car  thundering  outside.  Bruce  had  left  New  York 
at  dawn  and  had  made  the  run  in  a  single  day,  thre^iun- 
dred  and  eleven  miles.  He  was  gray  with  dust  alfflver 
and  he  was  worn  and  hollow  eyed,  but  his  dark  visage 
wore  a  lo"ok  of  solid  satisfaction. 

"I  needed  the  trip  to  shake  me  down,"  he  pleaded, 
when  Edith  scolded  him  well  for  this  terrific  manner  of 
starting  his  vacation.  "I  had  to  have  it  to  cut  me  off 


HIS  FAMILY  121 

from  the  job  I  left  behind  me.  Now  watch  me  settle  down 
on  this  farm." 

But  it  appeared  he  could  not  settle  down.  For  the  first 
few  days,  in  his  motor,  he  was  busy  exploring  the  moun 
tains.  "  We'll  make  'em  look  foolish.  Eh,  son?"  he  said. 
And  with  George,  who  mutely  adored  him,  he  ran  all 
about  them  in  a  day.  Genially  he  gave  everyone  rides. 
When  he'd  finished  with  the  family,  he  took  Dave  Royce 
the  farmer  and  his  wife  and  children,  and  even  both  the 
hired  men,  for  Bruce  was  an  hospitable  soul.  But  more 
than  anyone  else  he  took  George.  They  spent  hours 
working  on  the  car,  and  at  times  when  they  came  into 
the  house  begreased  and  blackened  from  their  work,  Edith 
reproved  them  like  bad  boys — but  Deborah  smiled  con 
tentedly. 

But  at  the  end  of  another  week  Bruce  grew  plainly  rest 
less,  and  despite  his  wife's  remonstrances  made  ready  to 
return  to  town.  When  she  spoke  of  his  hay  fever  he 
bragged  to  her  complacently  of  his  newly  discovered  cure. 

"Oh,  bother  your  little  blue  bugs!"  she  cried. 

"The  bugs  aren't  blue,"  he  explained  to  her,  in  a  mild 
and  patient  voice  that  drove  Edith  nearly  wild.  "  They're 
so  little  they  have  no  color  at  all.  Poor  friendly  little 
devils—" 

"Bruce!"  his  wife  exploded. 

"They've  been  almighty  good  to  me.  You  ought  to 
have  heard  my  friend  the  Judge,  the  last  night  I  was  with 
him.  He  patted  his  bottle  and  said  to  me,  '  Bruce,  my  boy, 
with  all  these  simple  animals  right  here  as  our  companions 
why  be  a  damn  fool  and  run  off  to  the  cows? '  And  there's 
a  good  deal  in  what  he  says.  You  ought  to  be  mighty 
thankful,  too,  that  my  summer  pleasures  are  so  mild.  If 
you  could  see  what  some  chaps  do — " 

And  Bruce  started  back  for  the  city.  George  rode  with 
him  the  first  few  miles,  then  left  him  and  came  trudging 
home.  His  spirits  were  exceedingly  low. 


122  HIS  FAMILY 

As  August  drew  toward  a  close,  Deborah,  too,  showed 
signs  of  unrest.  With  ever  growing  frequency  Roger  felt 
her  eagerness  to  return  to  her  work  in  New  York. 

" You're  as  bad  as  Bruce/'  he  growled  at  her.  "You 
don't  have  to  be  back,"  he  argued.  " School  doesn't  begin 
for  nearly  three  weeks." 

"  There's  the  suffrage  campaign,"  she  answered.  He 
gave  her  a  look  of  exasperation. 

"Now  what  the  devil  has  suffrage  to  do  with  your 
schools?"  he  demanded. 

"  When  the  women  get  the  vote,  we'll  spend  more  money 
on  the  children." 

"Suppose  the  money  isn't  there,"  was  Roger's  grim 
rejoinder. 

"Then  we'll  act  like  old-fashioned  wives,  I  suppose," 
his  daughter  answered  cheerfully,  "and  keep  nagging  till 
it  is  there.  We'll  keep  up  such  a  nagging,"  she  added,  in 
sweet  even  tones,  "that  you'll  get  the  money  by  hook  or 
crook,  to  save  yourselves  from  going  insane." 

After  this  he  caught  her  reading  in  the  New  York 
papers  the  list  of  campaign  meetings  each  night,  meetings 
in  hot  stifling  halls  or  out  upon  deafening  corners.  And 
as  she  read  there  came  over  her  face  a  look  like  that  of 
a  man  who  has  given  up  tobacco  and  suddenly  sniffs  it 
among  his  friends.  She  went  down  the  last  night  of 
August. 

Roger  stayed  on  for  another  two  weeks,  on  into  the  best 
time  of  the  year.  For  now  came  the  nights  of  the  first 
snapping  frosts  when  the  dome  of  the  heavens  was  steely 
blue,  and  clear  sparkling  mornings,  the  woods  aflame 
with  scarlet  and  gold.  And  across  the  small  field  below 
the  house,  at  sunset  Roger  would  go  down  to  the  copse  of 
birches  there  and  find  it  filled  with  glints  of  light  that  took 
his  glance  far  in  among  the  slender,  creamy  stems  of  the 
trees,  all  slowly  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  leafage  rich  with 


HIS  FAMILY  123 

autumn  hues,  warm  orange,  yellow  and  pale  green.  Lovely 
and  silent  and  serene.  So  it  had  been  when  he  was  a  boy 
and  so  it  would  be  when  he  was  dead.  Countless  trees 
had  been  cut  down  but  others  had  risen  in  their  stead. 
Now  and  then  he  could  hear  a  bird  warbling. 

Long  ago  this  spot  had  been  his  mother's  favorite 
refuge  from  her  busy  day  in  the  house.  She  had  almost 
always  come  alone,  but  sometimes  Roger  stealing  down 
would  watch  her  sitting  motionless  and  staring  in  among 
the  trees.  Years  later  in  his  reading  he  had  come  upon  the 
phrase,  "sacred  grove/7  and  at  once  he  had  thought  of  the 
birches.  And  sitting  here  where  she  had  been,  he  felt 
again  that  boundless  faith  in  life  resplendent,  conquer 
ing  death,  and  serenely  sweeping  him  on — into  what  he 
did  not  fear.  For  this  had  been  his  mother's  faith. 
Sometimes  in  the  deepening  dusk  he  could  almost  see  her 
sitting  here. 

"This  faith  in  you  has  come  from  me.  This  is  my 
memory  living  on  in  you,  my  son,  though  you  do  not 
know.  How  many  times  have  I  held  you  back,  how  many 
times  have  I  urged  you  on,  roused  you  up  or  soothed  you, 
made  you  hope  or  fear  or  dream,  through  memories  of 
long  ago.  For  you  were  once  a  part  of  me.  I  moulded 
you,  my  little  son.  And  as  I  have  been  to  you,  so  you  will 
be  to  your  children.  In  their  lives,  too,  we  shall  be  there — 
silent  and  invisible,  the  dim  strong  figures  of  the  past. 
For  this  is  the  power  of  families,  this  is  the  mystery  of 
birth." 

Suddenly  he  started.  What  was  it  that  had  thrilled 
him  so?  Only  a  tall  dark  fir  in  the  birches.  But  looming 
in  there  like  a  shadowy  phantom  it  had  recalled  a  memory 
of  a  dusk  far  back  in  his  boyhood,  when  seeing  a  shadow 
just  like  this  he  had  thought  it  a  ghost  in  very  truth  and 
had  run  for  the  house  like  a  rabbit!  How  terribly  real  that 
fright  had  been!  The  recollection  suddenly  became  so 
vivid  in  his  mind,  that  as  though  a  veil  had  been  lifted  he 


124  HIS  FAMILY 

felt  the  living  presence  here,  close  by  his  side,  of  a  small 
barefoot  mountain  lad,  clothed  in  sober  homespun  gray, 
but  rilled  with  warm  desires,  dreams  and  curiosities,  ex 
ploring  upon  every  hand,  now  marching  boldly  forward, 
now  stealing  up  so  cautiously,  now  galloping  away  like 
mad !  "I  was  once  a  child."  To  most  of  us  these  are  mere 
words.  To  few  is  it  ever  given  to  attain  so  much  as  even  a 
glimpse  into  the  warm  and  quivering  soul  of  that  little 
stranger  of  long  ago.  We  do  not  know  how  we  were  made. 

"I  moulded  you,  my  little  son.  And  as  I  have  been  to 
you,  so  you  will  be  to  your  children.  In  their  lives,  too, 
we  shall  be  there." 

Darker,  darker  grew  the  copse  and  the  chill  of  the  night 
descended.  But  to  Roger's  eyes  there  was  no  gloom.  For 
he  had  seen  a  vision. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  his  return  to  the  city,  Roger  found  that  Deborah's 
school  had  apparently  swept  all  other  interests  out  of  her 
mind.  Baird  hardly  ever  came  to  the  house,  and  she  herself 
was  seldom  there  except  for  a  hasty  dinner  at  night.  The 
house  had  to  run  itself  more  or  less;  and  though  Annie  the 
cook  was  doing  her  best,  things  did  not  run  so  smoothly. 
Roger  missed  little  comforts,  attentions,  and  he  missed 
Deborah  most  of  all.  When  he  came  down  to  his  break 
fast  she  had  already  left  the  house,  and  often  she  did  not 
return  until  long  after  he  was  in  bed.  She  felt  the  differ 
ence  herself,  and  though  she  did  not  put  it  in  words  her 
manner  at  times  seemed  to  beg  his  forbearance.  But  there 
were  many  evenings  when  her  father  found  it  difficult  to 
hold  to  the  resolve  he  had  made,  to  go  slowly  with  his 
daughter  until  he  could  be  more  sure  of  his  ground.  She 
was  growing  so  intense  again.  From  the  school  authorities 
she  had  secured  a  still  wider  range  and  freedom  for  her 
new  experiment,  and  she  was  working  day  and  night  to 
put  her  ideas  into  effect. 

"It's  only  too  easy,"  she  remarked,  "to  launch  an  idea 
in  this  town.  The  town  will  put  it  in  headlines  at  once, 
and  with  it  a  picture  of  yourself  in  your  best  bib  and 
tucker,  looking  as  though  you  loved  the  whole  world. 
And  you  can  make  a  wonderful  splurge,  until  they  go  on  to 
the  next  new  thing.  The  real  trouble  comes  in  working  it 
out." 

And  this  she  had  set  out  to  do.  Many  nights  in  the 
autumn  Roger  went  down  to  the  school,  to  try  to  get  some 
clear  idea  of  this  vision  of  hers  for  children,  which  in  a 

125 


126  HIS  FAMILY 

vague  way  he  could  feel  was  so  much  larger  than  his  own, 
for  he  had  seen  its  driving  force  in  the  grip  it  had  upon  her 
life.  At  first  he  could  make  nothing  of  it  at  all;  everywhere 
chaos  met  his  eyes.  But  he  found  something  formless, 
huge,  that  made  to  him  a  strong  appeal. 

The  big  building  fairly  hummed  at  night  with  number 
less  activities.  Fathers,  mothers  and  children  came  pour 
ing  in  together  and  went  skurrying  off  to  their  places. 
They  learned  to  speak  English,  to  read  and  write;  grown 
men  and  women  scowled  and  toiled  over  their  arithmetic. 
They  worked  at  trades  in  the  various  shops;  they  ham 
mered  and  sawed  and  set  up  type;  they  cooked  and  sewed 
and  gossiped.  "The  Young  Galician  Socialist  Girls"  de 
bated  on  the  question :  "  Resolved  that  woman  suffrage  has 
worked  in  Colorado."  "The  Caruso  Pleasure  Club"  gave 
a  dance  to  "The  Garibaldi  Whirlwinds."  An  orchestra 
rehearsed  like  mad.  They  searched  their  memories  for  the 
songs  and  all  the  folk  tales  they  had  heard  in  peasant  huts 
in  Italy,  in  hamlets  along  rocky  coasts,  in  the  dark  old 
ghettos  of  crowded  towns  in  Poland  and  in  Russia.  And 
some  of  these  songs  were  sung  in  school,  and  some  of  these 
tales  were  dramatized  here.  Children  and  parents  all 
took  part.  And  speakers  emerged  from  the  neighborhood. 
It  was  at  times  appalling,  the  number  of  young  Italians 
and  Jews  who  had  ideas  to  give  forth  to  their  friends  on 
socialism,  poverty,  marriage  and  religion,  and  all  the  other 
questions  that  rose  among  these  immigrants  jammed  into 
this  tenement  hive.  But  when  there  were  too  many  of 
these  self-appointed  guides,  the  neighborhood  shut  down 
on  them. 

"We  don't  want,"  declared  one  indignant  old  woman, 
"that  every  young  loafer  should  shout  in  our  face!" 

Roger  was  slowly  attracted  into  this  enormous  family 
life,  and  yielding  to  an  impulse  he  took  charge  of  a  boys7 
club  which  met  on  Thursday  evenings  there.  He  knew 
well  this  job  of  fathering  a  small  jovial  group  of  lads;  he 


HIS  FAMILY  127 

had  done  it  before,  many  years  ago,  in  the  mission  school, 
to  please  his  wife;  he  felt  himself  back  on  familiar  ground. 
And  from  this  point  of  vantage,  with  something  definite 
he  could  do,  he  watched  with  an  interest  more  clear  the 
school  form  steadily  closer  ties  with  the  tenements  that 
hedged  it  'round,  gathering  its  big  family.  And  this 
family  by  slow  degrees  began  to  make  itself  a  part  of  the 
daily  life  of  Roger's  house.  Committees  held  their  meet 
ings  here,  teachers  dropped  in  frequently,  and  Roger  in 
vited  the  boys  in  his  club  to  come  up  and  see  him  whenever 
they  liked. 

His  most  frequent  visitor  was  Johnny  Geer,  the  cripple. 
He  was  working  in  Roger's  office  now  and  the  two  had 
soon  become  close  friends.  John  kept  himself  so  neat 
and  clean,  he  displayed  such  a  keen  interest  in  all  the  de 
tails  of  office  work,  and  he  showed  such  a  beaming  appre 
ciation  of  anything  that  was  done  for  him. 

"That  boy  is  getting  a  hold  on  me  lately  almost  like  a 
boy  of  my  own,"  Roger  said  one  evening  when  Allan  Baird 
was  at  the  house.  "He's  the  pluckiest  young  un  I  ever 
met.  I've  put  him  to  work  in  my  private  office,  where  he 
can  use  the  sofa  to  rest,  and  I've  made  him  my  own  stenog 
rapher — partly  because  he's  so  quick  at  dictation  and 
partly  to  try  to  make  him  slow  down.  He  has  the  mind  of 
a  race  horse.  He  runs  at  night  to  libraries  until  I  should 
think  he'd  go  insane.  And  his  body  can't  stand  it,  he's 
breaking  down — though  whenever  I  ask  him  how  he  feels, 
he  always  says,  *  Fine,  thank  you.' "  Here  Roger  turned  to 
Allan.  "I  wish  you'd  take  the  boy,"  he  said,  "to  the 
finest  specialist  in  town,  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  his 
spine.  I'll  pay  any  price." 

"There  won't  be  any  price,"  said  Allan,  "but  I'll  see 
to  it  at  once." 

He  had  John  examined  the  same  week. 

"Well?"  asked  Roger  when  next  they  met. 

"Well,"  said  Baird,  "it  isn't  good  news." 


128  HIS  FAMILY 

"You  mean  he's  hopeless?"    Allan  nodded: 

"It's  Pott's  disease,  and  it's  gone  too  far.  John  is 
eighteen.  He  may  live  to  be  thirty." 

"But  I  tell  you,  Baird,  I'll  do  anything!  " 

"There's  almost  nothing  you  can  do.  If  he  had  been 
taken  when  he  was  a  baby,  he  might  have  been  cured  and 
given  a  chance.  But  the  same  mother  who  dropped  him 
then,  when  she  was  full  of  liquor,  just  went  to  the  druggist 
on  her  block,  and  after  listening  to  his  advice  she  bought 
some  patent  medicine,  a  steel  jacket  and  some  crutches, 
and  thought  she'd  done  her  duty." 

"But  there  must  be  something  we  can  do!"  retorted 
Roger  angrily. 

"Yes,"  said  Baird,  "we  can  make  him  a  little  more 
comfortable.  And  meanwhile  we  can  help  Deborah  here 
to  get  hold  of  other  boys  like  John  and  give  'em  a  chance 
before  it's  too  late — keep  them  from  being  crippled  for 
life  because  their  mothers  were  too  blind  and  ignorant  to 
act  in  time."  Baird's  voice  had  a  ring  of  bitterness. 

"Most  of  Jem  love  their  children,"  Roger  said  uneasily. 
Baird  turned  on  him  a  steady  look. 

"Love  isn't  enough,"  he  retorted.  "The  time  is  coming 
very  soon  when  we'll  have  the  right  to  guard  the  child  not 
only  when  it's  a  baby  but  even  before  it  has  been  born." 

Roger  drew  closer  to  John  after  this.  Often  behind  the 
beaming  smile  he  would  feel  the  pain  and  loneliness,  and 
the  angry  grit  which  was  fighting  it  down.  And  so  he  would 
ask  John  home  to  supper  on  nights  when  nobody  else  was 
there.  One  day  late  in  the  afternoon  they  were  walking 
home  together  along  the  west  side  of  Madison  Square. 
The  big  open  space  was  studded  with  lights  sparkling  up 
at  the  frosty  stars,  in  a  city,  a  world,  a  universe  that 
seemed  filled  with  the  zest  and  the  vigor  of  life.  Out  of 
these  lights  a  mighty  tower  loomed  high  up  into  the  sky. 
And  stopping  on  his  crutches,  a  grim  small  crooked  figure 
in  all  this  rushing  turmoil,  John  set  his  jaws,  and  with 


HIS  FAMILY  129 

his  shrewd  and  twinkling  eyes  fixed  on  the  top  of  the  tower, 
he  said, 

"I  meant  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Gale.  You  was  asking  me 
once  what  I  wanted  to  be.  And  I  want  to  be  an  archi 
tect." 

"Do,  eh/7  grunted  Roger.  He,  too,  looked  up  at  that 
thing  in  the  stars,  and  there  was  a  tightening  at  his  throat. 
"All  right,"  he  added,  presently,  "why  not  start  in  and  be 
one?" 

"How?"  asked  John  alertly. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  said  Roger,  "I'd  hate  to  lose  you  in 
the  office — " 

"Yes,  sir,  and  I'd  hate  to  go."  Just  then  the  big  clock 
in  the  tower  began  to  boom  the  hour,  and  a  chill  struck 
into  Roger. 

"You'd  have  to,"  he  said  gruffly.  "You  haven't  any 
time  to  lose!  I  mean,"  he  hastily  added,  "that  for  a  job 
as  big  as  that  you'd  need  a  lot  of  training.  But  if  it's 
what  you  want  to  be,  go  right  ahead.  I'll  back  you. 
My  son-in-law  is  a  builder  at  present.  I'll  talk  to  him 
and  get  his  advice.  We  may  be  able  to  arrange  to  have 
you  go  right  into  his  office,  begin  at  the  bottom  and  work 
straight  up."  In  silence  for  a  moment  John  hobbled  on 
by  Roger's  side. 

"I'd  hate  to  leave  your  place,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  was  Roger's  brusque  reply,  "and  I'd  hate  to 
lose  you.  We'll  have  to  think  it  over." 

A  few  days  later  he  talked  with  Bruce,  who  said  he'd 
be  glad  to  take  the  boy.  And  at  dinner  that  night  with 
Deborah,  Roger  asked  abruptly, 

"Why  not  let  Johnny  come  here  for  a  while  and  use 
one  of  our  empty  bedrooms?" 

With  a  quick  flush  of  pleased  surprise,  Deborah  gave 
her  father  a  look  that  embarrassed  him  tremendously. 

"Well,  why  not?"  he  snapped  at  her.  "Sensible,  isn't 
it?" 


130  HIS  FAMILY 

"Perfectly." 

And  sensible  it  turned  out  to  be.  When  John  first 
heard  about  it,  he  was  apparently  quite  overcome,  and 
there  followed  a  brief  awkward  pause  while  he  rapidly 
blinked  the  joy  from  his  eyes.  But  then  he  said,  "Fine, 
thank  you.  That's  mighty  good  of  you,  Mr.  Gale,"  in 
as  matter  of  fact  a  tone  as  you  please.  And  he  entered 
the  household  in  much  the  same  way,  for  John  had  a  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things.  He  had  always  kept  himself  neat 
and  clean,  but  he  became  immaculate  now.  He  dined 
with  Roger  the  first  night,  but  early  the  next  morning  he 
went  down  to  the  kitchen  and  breakfasted  there;  and 
from  this  time  on,  unless  he  were  especially  urged  to  come 
up  to  the  dining  room,  John  took  all  his  meals  downstairs. 
The  maids  were  Irish — so  was  John.  They  were  good 
Catholics — so  was  John.  They  loved  the  movies — so 
did  John.  In  short,  it  worked  out  wonderfully.  In  less 
than  a  month  John  had  made  himself  an  unobtrusive  and 
natural  part  of  the  life  of  Roger's  sober  old  house.  It 
had  had  to  stretch  just  a  little,  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BUT  that  winter  there  was  more  in  the  house  than 
Deborah's  big  family.  Though  at  times  Roger  felt  it  surg 
ing  in  with  its  crude,  immense  vitality,  there  were  other 
times  when  it  was  not  so,  and  the  lives  of  his  other  two 
daughters  attracted  his  attention,  for  both  were  back 
again  in  town. 

Laura  and  her  husband  had  returned  from  abroad  in 
October,  and  in  a  small  but  expensive  apartment  in  a  huge 
new  building  facing  on  Park  Avenue  they  had  gaily  started 
the  career  of  their  own  little  family,  or  "menage,"  as 
Laura  called  it.  This  word  had  stuck  in  Roger's  mind, 
for  he  had  a  suspicion  that  a  "menage"  was  no  place  for 
babies.  Grimly,  when  he  went  there  first  to  be  shown  the 
new  home  by  its  mistress,  he  looked  about  him  for  a  room 
which  might  be  made  a  nursery.  But  no  such  room  was 
in  evidence.  "We  decided  to  have  no  guest  room,"  he 
heard  Laura  say  to  Deborah.  And  glancing  at  his  daughter 
then,  sleek  and  smiling  and  demure,  in  her  tea-gown  fresh 
from  Paris,  Roger  darkly  told  himself  that  a  child  would 
be  an  unwelcome  guest.  The  whole  place  was  as  compact 
and  sparkling  as  a  jewel  box.  The  bed  chamber  was 
luxurious,  with  a  gorgeous  bath  adjoining  and  a  dressing- 
room  for  Harold. 

"And  look  at  this  love  of  a  closet!"  said  Laura  to  Deb 
orah  eagerly.  "  Isn't  it  simply  enormous?  "  As  Deborah 
looked,  her  father  did,  too,  and  his  eye  was  met  by  an  array 
of  shimmering  apparel  which  made  him  draw  back  almost 
with  a  start. 

They  found  Harold  in  the  pantry.  Their  Jap,  it  ap 
peared,  was  a  marvellous  cook  and  did  the  catering  as 

131 


132  HIS  FAMILY 

well,  so  that  Laura  rarely  troubled  herself  to  order  so 
much  as  a  single  meal.  But  her  husband  had  for  many 
years  been  famous  for  his  cocktails,  and  although  the  Jap 
did  everything  else  Hal  had  kept  this  in  his  own  hands. 

"I  thought  this  much  of  the  house-keeping  ought  to 
remain  in  the  family,"  he  said. 

Roger  did  not  like  this  joke.  But  later,  when  he  had 
imbibed  the  delicious  concoction  Harold  had  made,  and 
had  eaten  the  dinner  created  by  that  Japanese  artist  of 
theirs,  his  irritation  subsided. 

"They  barely  know  we're  here,"  he  thought.  " They're 
both  in  love  up  to  their  ears." 

Despite  their  genial  attempts  to  be  hospitable  and 
friendly,  time  and  again  he  saw  their  glances  meet  in  an 
intimate  gleaming  manner  which  made  him  rather  uncom 
fortable.  But  where  was  the  harm,  he  asked  himself. 
They  were  married  all  right,  weren't  they?  Still  somehow 
— somehow — no,  by  George,  he  didn't  like  it,  he  didn't 
approve!  The  whole  affair  was  decidedly  mixing.  Roger 
went  away  vaguely  uneasy,  and  he  felt  that  Deborah  was 
even  more  disturbed  than  himself. 

" Those  two/'  she  remarked  to  her  father,  "are  so 
fearfully  wrapt  up  in  each  other  it  makes  me  afraid.  Oh, 
it's  all  right,  I  suppose,  and  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  try  to 
interfere.  But  I  can't  help  feeling  somehow  that  no  two 
people  with  such  an  abundance  of  youth  and  money  and 
happiness  have  the  right  to  be  so  amazingly — selfish!" 

"They  ought  to  have  children,"  Roger  said. 

"But  look  at  Edith,"  his  daughter  rejoined.  "She 
hasn't  a  single  interest  that  I  can  find  outside  her  home. 
It  seems  to  have  swallowed  her,  body  and  soul."  A 
frowning  look  of  perplexity  swept  over  Deborah's  mobile 
face,  and  with  a  whimsical  sigh  she  exclaimed,  "Oh,  this 
queer  business  of  families!" 

In  December  there  came  a  little  crash.  Late  one  evening 
Laura  came  bursting  in  upon  them  in  a  perfect  tantrum, 


HIS  FAMILY  133 

every  nerve  in  her  lithe  body  tense,  her  full  lips  visibly 
quivering,  her  voice  unsteady,  and  her  big  black  eyes 
aflame  with  rage.  She  was  jealous  of  her  husband  and 
"that  nasty  little  cat!"  Roger  learned  no  more  about  it, 
for  Deborah  motioned  him  out  of  the  room.  He  heard 
their  two  voices  talk  on  and  on,  until  Laura's  slowly 
quieted  down.  Soon  afterwards  she  left  the  house,  and 
Deborah  came  in  to  him. 

"  She's  gone  home,  eh?"  asked  Roger. 

"Yes,  she  has,  poor  silly  child — she  said  at  first  she  had 
come  here  to  stay." 

"By  George,"  he  said.    "As  bad  as  that?" 

"Of  course  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that!"  Deborah  cried  im 
patiently.  "She  just  built  and  built  on  silly  suspicions 
and  let  herself  get  all  worked  up !  I  don't  see  what  they're 
coming  to!"  For  a  few  moments  nothing  was  said.  "It's 
so  unnatural! "  she  exclaimed.  "Men  and  women  weren't 
made  to  live  like  that!"  Roger  scowled  into  his  paper. 

"Better  leave  'em  alone,"  he  admonished  her.  "You 
can't  help — they're  not  your  kind.  Don't  you  mix  into 
this  affair." 

But  Deborah  did.  She  remembered  that  her  sister  had 
once  shown  quite  a  talent  for  amateur  theatricals;  and  to 
give  Laura  something  to  do,  Deborah  persuaded  her  to 
take  a  dramatic  club  in  her  school.  And  Laura,  rather  to 
Roger's  surprise,  became  an  enthusiast  down  there.  She 
worked  like  a  slave  at  rehearsals,  and  upon  the  costumes 
she  spent  money  with  a  lavish  hand.  Moreover,  instead  of 
being  annoyed,  as  Edith  was,  at  Deborah's  prominence  in 
the  press,  Laura  gloried  in  it,  as  though  this  "radical" 
sister  of  hers  were  a  distinct  social  asset  among  her  giddy 
friends  uptown.  For  even  Laura's  friends,  her  father 
learned  with  astonishment,  had  acquired  quite  an  appetite 
for  men  and  women  with  ideas — the  more  "radical,"  the 
better.  But  the  way  Laura  used  this  word  at  times  made 
Roger's  blood  run  cold.  She  was  vivid  in  her  approval  of 


134  HIS  FAMILY 

her  sister's  whole  idea,  as  a  scheme  of  wholesale  mother 
hood  which  would  give  "a  perfectly  glorious  jolt"  to  the 
old-fashioned  home  with  its  overworked  mothers  who  let 
their  children  absorb  their  days. 

"As  though  having  children  and  bringing  them  up," 
she  disdainfully  declared,  "were  something  every  woman 
must  do,  whether  she  happens  to  like  it  or  not,  at  the  cost 
of  any  real  growth  of  her  own!" 

And  smilingly  she  hinted  at  impending  radical  changes 
in  the  whole  relation  of  marriage,  of  which  she  was  hearing 
in  detail  at  a  series  of  lectures  to  young  wives,  delivered  on 
Thursday  mornings  in  a  hotel  ball-room. 

What  the  devil  was  getting  into  the  town?  Roger 
frowned  his  deep  dislike.  Here  was  Laura  with  her 
chicken's  mind  blithely  taking  her  sister's  thoughts  and 
turning  them  topsy-turvy,  to  make  for  herself  a  view  of 
life  which  fitted  like  a  white  kid  glove  her  small  and 
elegant  "menage."  And  although  her  father  had  only 
inklings  of  it  all,  he  had  quite  enough  to  make  him  irate  at 
this  uncanny  interplay  of  influences  in  his  family.  Why 
couldn't  the  girls  leave  each  other  alone? 

Early  in  the  winter,  Edith,  too,  had  entered  in.  It  had 
taken  Edith  just  one  glance  into  the  bride's  apartment  to 
grasp  Laura's  whole  scheme  of  existence. 

"Selfish,  indulgent  and  abnormal,"  was  the  way  she 
described  it.  She  and  Bruce  were  dining  with  Roger  that 
night.  "I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair,"  continued 
Edith  curtly.  "So  long  as  she  doesn't  want  my  help,  as 
she  has  plainly  made  me  feel,  I  certainly  shan't  stand  in 
her  way." 

"You're  absolutely  right,"  said  her  father. 

"Stick  to  it,"  said  Bruce  approvingly. 

But  Edith  did  not  stick  to  it.  In  her  case  too,  as  the 
weeks  wore  on,  those  subtle  family  ties  took  hold  and 
made  her  feel  the  least  she  could  do  was  "to  keep  up 


HIS  FAMILY  135 

appearances."  So  she  and  Bruce  dined  with  the  bride  and 
groom,  and  in  turn  had  them  to  dinner.  And  these  din 
ners,  as  Bruce  confided  to  Roger,  were  occasions  no  man 
could  forget. 

"They  come  only  about  once  a  month,"  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  pathos,  "but  it  seems  as  though  barely  a  week  had 
gone  by  when  Edith  says  to  me  again,  'We're  dining  with 
Laura  and  Hal  to-night/  Well,  and  we  dine.  Young 
Sloane  is  not  a  bad  sort  of  a  chap — works  hard  downtown 
and  worships  his  wife.  The  way  he  lives — well,  it  isn't 
mine — and  mine  isn't  his — and  we  both  let  it  go  at  that. 
But  the  women  can't,  they  haven't  it  in  'em.  Each  sits 
with  her  way  of  life  in  her  lap.  You  can't  see  it  over  the 
tablecloth,  but,  my  God,  how  you  feel  it !  The  worst  of  it 
is,"  he  ended,  "that  after  one  of  these  terrible  meals  each 
woman  is  more  set  than  before  in  her  own  way  of  living. 
Not  that  I  don't  like  Edith's  way,"  her  husband  added 
hastily. 

Edith  also  disapproved  of  the  fast  increasing  publicity 
which  Deborah  was  getting. 

"I  may  be  very  old-fashioned,"  she  remarked  to  her 
father,  "but  I  can't  get  used  to  this  idea  that  a  woman's 
place  is  in  headlines.  And  I  think  it's  rather  hard  on 
you — the  use  she's  making  of  your  house." 

One  Friday  night  when  she  came  to  play  chess,  she 
found  her  father  in  the  midst  of  a  boisterous  special  meet 
ing  of  his  club  of  Italian  boys.  It  had  been  postponed  from 
the  evening  before.  And  though  Roger,  overcome  with 
dismay  at  having  forgotten  Edith's  night,  apologized 
profusely,  the  time-honored  weekly  game  took  place  no 
more  from  that  day  on. 

"Edith's  pretty  sore,"  said  Bruce,  who  dropped  in 
soon  afterwards.  "She  says  Deborah  has  made  your 
house  into  an  annex  to  her  school." 

Roger  smoked  in  silence.  His  whole  family  was  about 
his  ears. 


136  HIS  FAMILY 

"My  boy,"  he  muttered  earnestly,  "you  and  I  must 
stick  together." 

"We  sure  must,"  agreed  his  son-in-law.  "And  what's 
more,  if  we're  to  keep  the  peace,  we've  got  to  try  to  put 
some  punch  into  Deborah's  so-called  love  affair.  She 
ought  to  get  married  and  settle  down." 

"Yes,"  said  Roger,  dubiously.  "Only  let's  keep  it  to 
ourselves." 

"No  chance  of  that,"  was  the  cheerful  reply.  "You 
can't  keep  Edith  out  of  it.  It  would  only  make  trouble  in 
my  family."  Roger  gave  him  a  pitying  look  and  said, 

"Then,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  let  her  in!" 

So  they  took  Edith  into  their  councils,  and  she  gave 
them  an  indulgent  smile. 

"Suppose  you  leave  this  to  me,"  she  commanded. 
"Don't  you  think  I've  been  using  my  eyes?  There's  no 
earthly  use  in  stepping  in  now,  for  Deborah  has  lost  her 
head.  She  sees  herself  a  great  new  woman  with  a  career. 
But  wait  till  the  present  flare-up  subsides,  till  the  news 
papers  all  drop  her  and  she  is  thoroughly  tired  out.  Until 
then,  remember,  we  keep  our  hands  off." 

"Do  you  think  you  can?"  asked  Roger,  with  a  little 
glimmer  of  hope. 

"I?"  she  retorted.  "Most  certainly!  I  mean  to  leave 
her  alone  absolutely — until  she  comes  to  me  herself.  When 
she  does,  we'll  know  it's  time  to  begin." 

"I'm  afraid  Edith  is  hurt  about  something,"  said 
Deborah  to  her  father,  about  a  month  after  this  little  talk. 
"She  hasn't  been  near  us  for  over  three  weeks." 

"Let  her  be!"  said  Roger,  in  alarm.  "I  mean,"  he 
hastily  added,  "why  can't  you  let  Edith  come  when  she 
likes?  There's  nothing  the  matter.  It's  simply  her  chil 
dren — -they  take  up  her  time." 

"No,"  said  Deborah  calmly,  "it's  I.  She  as  good  as 
told  me  so  last  month.  She  thinks  I've  become  a  perfect 


HIS  FAMILY  137 

fanatic — 'without  a  spare  moment  or  thought  for  my 
family." 

"  Oh,  my  family ! "  Roger  groaned.  "I  tell  you,  Deborah, 
you're  wrong!  Edith's  children  are  probably  sick  in  bed!" 

"Then  I'll  go  and  see,"  she  answered. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  Deborah,"  Edith  informed 
him  blithely,  over  the  telephone  the  next  night. 

"Has,  eh,"  grunted  Roger. 

"Yes,  she  was  here  to  see  me  to-day.  And  some 
thing  has  happened — she's  changing  fast.  I  felt  it  in  all 
kinds  of  ways.  She  was  just  as  dear  as  she  could  be — and 
lonely,  as  though  she  were  feeling  her  age.  I  really  think 
we  can  do  something  now." 

"All  right,  let's  do  something,"  Roger  growled. 

And  Edith  began  to  do  something.  Her  hostility  to  her 
sister  had  completely  disappeared.  In  its  place  was  a 
friendly  affection,  an  evident  desire  to  please.  She  even 
drew  Laura  into  the  secret,  and  there  was  a  gathering  of 
the  clan.  There  were  consultations  in  Roger's  den. 
"Deborah  is  to  get  married."  The  feeling  of  it  crept 
through  the  house.  Nothing  was  said  to  her,  of  course,  but 
Deborah  was  made  to  feel  that  her  two  sisters  had  drawn 
close.  And  their  influence  upon  her  choice  was  more  deep 
and  subtle  than  she  knew.  For  although  Roger's  family 
had  split  so  wide  apart,  between  his  three  daughters  there 
were  still  mysterious  bonds  reaching  far  back  into  nursery 
days.  And  Deborah  in  deciding  whether  to  marry  Allan 
Baird  was  affected  more  than  she  was  aware  by  the  married 
lives  of  her  sisters.  All  she  had  seen  in  Laura's  menage,  all 
that  she  had  ever  observed  in  Edith's  growing  family,  kept 
rising  from  time  to  time  in  her  thoughts,  as  she  vaguely 
tried  to  picture  herself  a  wife  and  the  i mother  of  children. 

So  the  family,  with  those  subtle  bond.-  from  the  past, 
began  to  press  steadily  closer  and  closer  around  this  one 
unmarried  daughter,  and  help  her  to  make  up  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BUT  she  did  not  appear  to  care  to  be  helped.  Nor  did 
Allan — he  rarely  came  to  the  house,  and  he  went  to  Edith's 
not  at  all.  He  was  even  absent  from  her  Christmas 
tree  for  the  children,  a  jolly  little  festivity  which  neither 
he  nor  Deborah  had  missed  in  years. 

"What  has  got  into  him? "  Roger  asked.  And  shortly 
after  Christmas  he  called  the  fellow  up  on  the  'phone. 
"Drop  in  for  dinner  to-night,"  he  urged.  And  he  added 
distinctly,  "I'm  alone." 

"Are  you?    I'll  be  glad  to." 

"Thank  you,  Baird,  I  want  your  advice."  And  as  he 
hung  up  the  receiver  he  said,  "Now  then!"  to  himself, 
in  a  tone  of  firm  decision.  But  later,  as  the  day  wore  on, 
he  cursed  himself  for  what  he  had  done.  "Don't  it  beat 
the  devil,"  he  thought,  "how  I'm  always  putting  my  foot 
in  it?"  And  when  Baird  came  into  the  room  that  night 
he  loomed,  to  Roger's  anxious  eye,  if  anything  taller  than 
before.  But  his  manner  was  so  easy,  his  gruff  voice  so 
natural,  and  he  seemed  to  take  this  little  party  of  two  so 
quietly  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  Roger  was  soon 
reassured,  and  at  table  he  and  Allan  got  on  even  better 
than  before.  Baird  talked  of  his  life  as  a  student,  in  Vienna, 
Bonn  and  Edinburgh,  and  of  his  first  struggles  in  New 
York.  His  talk  was  full  of  human  bits,  some  tragic,  more 
amusing.  And  Roger's  liking  for  the  man  increased  with 
every  story  told. 

"I  asked  you  here,"  he  bluntly  began,  when  they  had 
gone  to  the  study  to  smoke,  "to  talk  to  you  about  Debo 
rah."  Baird  gave  him  a  friendly  look. 

138 


HIS  FAMILY  139 

"All  right.    Let's  talk  about  her." 

"It  strikes  me  you  were  right  last  year,"  said  Roger, 
speaking  slowly.  "  She's  already  showing  the  strain  of 
her  work.  She  don't  look  to  me  as  strong  as  she  was." 

"She  looks  to  me  stronger,"  Allan  replied.  "  You  know, 
people  fool  doctors  now  and  then — and  she  seems  to  have 
taken  a  fresh  start.  I  feel  she  may  go  on  for  years." 
Roger  was  silent  a  moment,  chagrined  and  disappointed. 

"Have  you  had  a  good  chance  to  watch  her?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  and  I'm  watching  her  still,"  said  Baird.  "I  see 
her  down  there  at  the  school.  She  tells  me  you've  been 
there  yourself." 

"Yes,"  said  Roger,  determinedly,  "and  I  mean  to  keep 
on  going.  I'm  trying  not  to  lose  hold  of  her,"  he  added 
with  harsh  emphasis.  Baird  turned  and  frankly  smiled 
at  him. 

"Then  you  have  probably  seen,"  he  replied,  "that  to 
keep  any  hold  at  all  on  her,  you  must  make  up  your  mind 
as  I  have  done  that,  strength  or  no  strength,  this  job  of  hers 
is  going  to  be  a  life  career.  When  a  woman  who  has  held 
a  job  without  a  break  for  eleven  years  can  feel  such  a  flame 
of  enthusiasm,  you  can  be  pretty  sure,  I  think,  it  is 
the  deepest  part  of  her.  At  least  I  feel  that  way,"  he  said. 
"And  I  believe  the  only  way  to  keep  near  her— for  the 
present,  anyhow — is  to  help  her  in  her  work." 

When  Baird  had  gone,  Roger  found  himself  angry. 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit,  young  man,"  he  thought,  "of 
throwing  my  daughter  at  gentlemen's  heads.  If  you  feel 
as  calm  and  contented  as  that  you  can  go  to  the  devil! 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  lift  a  hand!  In  fact,  as  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  you  would  probably  make  her  a  mighty  poor 
husband!"  He  worked  himself  into  quite  a  rage.  But  an 
hour  later,  when  he  had  subsided,  "Hold  on,"  he  thought. 
"Am  I  right  about  this?  Is  the  man  as  contented  as  he 
talks?  No,  sir,  not  for  a  minute  he  isn't!  But  what  can 
he  do?  If  he  tried  making  love  to  Deborah  he'd  simply  be 


140  HIS  FAMILY 

killing  his  chances.  Not  the  slightest  doubt  in  the  world. 
She  can't  think  of  anything  but  her  career.  Yes,  sir,  when 
all's  said  and  done,  to  marry  a  modern  woman  is  no  child's 
play,  it  means  thought  and  care.  And  A.  Baird  has  made 
up  his  mind  to  it.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  her 
by  playing  a  long  waiting  game.  He's  just  slowly  and 
quietly  nosing  his  way  into  her  school,  because  it's  her 
life.  And  a  mighty  shrewd  way  of  going  about  it.  You 
don't  need  any  help  from  me,  my  friend;  all  you  need  is 
to  be  let  alone." 

In  talks  at  home  with  Deborah,  and  in  what  he  himself 
observed  at  school,  Roger  began  to  get  inklings  of  "A. 
Baird's  long  waiting  game."  He  found  that  several 
months  before  Allan  had  offered  to  start  a  free  clinic  for 
mothers  and  children  in  connection  with  the  school,  and 
that  he  alone  had  put  it  through,  with  only  the  most 
reluctant  aid  and  gratitude  from  Deborah — as  though  she 
dreaded  something.  Baird  took  countless  hours  from  his 
busy  uptown  practice;  he  hurt  himself  more  than  once, 
in  fact,  by  neglecting  rich  patients  to  do  this  work.  Where 
a  sick  or  pregnant  mother  was  too  poor  to  carry  out  his 
advice,  he  followed  her  into  her  tenement  home,  sent  one 
of  his  nurses  to  visit  her,  and  even  gave  money  when 
it  was  needed  to  ease  the  strain  of  her  poverty  until  she 
should  be  well  and  strong.  Soon  scores  of  the  mothers  of 
Deborah's  children  were  singing  the  praises  of  Doctor 
Baird. 

Then  he  began  coming  to  the  house. 

"I  was  right,"  thought  Roger  complacently. 

He  laid  in  a  stock  of  fine  cigars  and  some  good  port  and 
claret,  too;  and  on  evenings  when  Baird  came  to  dine, 
Roger  by  a  genial  glow  and  occasional  jocular  ironies 
would  endeavor  to  drag  the  talk  away  from  clinics,  ade 
noids,  children's  teeth,  epidemics  and  the  new  education. 
But  no  joke  was  so  good  that  Deborah  could  not  promptly 
match  it  with  some  amusing  little  thing  which  one  of  her 


HIS  FAMILY  141 

children  had  said  or  done.  For  she  had  a  mother's 
instinct  for  bragging  fondly  of  her  brood.  It  was 
deep,  it  was  uncanny,  this  queer  community  mother 
hood. 

"This  poor  devil,"  Roger  thought,  with  a  pitying 
glance  at  Baird,  "  might  just  as  well  be  marrying  a  widow 
with  three  thousand  brats." 

But  Baird  did  not  seem  in  the  least  dismayed.  On  the 
contrary,  his  assurance  appeared  to  be  deepening  every 
week,  and  with  it  Deborah's  air  of  alarm.  For  his  clinic, 
as  it  swiftly  grew,  he  secured  financial  backing  from  his 
rich  women  patients  uptown,  many  of  them  childless  and 
only  too  ready  to  respond  to  the  appeals  he  made  to  them. 
And  one  Saturday  evening  at  the  house,  while  dining  with 
Roger  and  Deborah,  he  told  of  an  offer  he  had  had  from  a 
wealthy  banker's  widow  to  build  a  maternity  hospital. 
He  talked  hungrily  of  all  it  could  do  in  co-operation  with 
the  school.  He  said  nothing  of  the  obvious  fact  that  it 
would  require  his  whole  time,  but  Roger  thought  of  that 
at  once,  and  by  the  expression  on  Deborah's  face  he  saw 
she  was  thinking,  too. 

He  felt  they  wanted  to  be  alone,  so  presently  he  left 
them.  From  his  study  he  could  hear  their  voices  growing 
steadily  more  intense.  Was  it  all  about  work?  He  could 
not  tell.  "They've  got  working  and  living  so  mixed  up, 
a  man  can't  possibly  tell  'em  apart." 

Then  his  daughter  was  called  to  the  telephone,  and 
Allan  came  in  to  bid  Roger  good-night.  And  his 
eyes  showed  an  impatience  he  did  not  seem  to  care  to 
hide. 

"Well?"  inquired  Roger.  "Did  you  get  Deborah's 
consent?" 

"To  what?"  asked  Allan  sharply. 

"To  your  acceptance,"  Roger  answered,  "of  the  widow's 
mite."  Baird  grinned. 

"She  couldn't  help  herself,"  he  said. 


142  HIS  FAMILY 

"But  she  didn't  seem  to  like  it,  eh— " 

"No,"  said  Baird,  "she  didn't."  Roger  had  a  dark 
suspicion. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  asked  in  a  casual  tone,  "what's  this 
philanthropic  widow  like?" 

"She's  sixty-nine,"  Baird  answered. 

"Oh,"  said  Roger.  He  smoked  for  a  time,  and  sagely 
added,  "My  daughter's  a  queer  woman,  Baird — she's 
modern,  very  modern.  But  she's  still  a  woman,  you 
understand — and  so  she's  jealous — of  her  job."  But  A. 
Baird  was  in  no  joking  mood. 

"She's  narrow,"  he  said  sternly.  "That's  what's  the 
matter  with  Deborah.  She's  so  centered  on  her  job  she 
can't  see  anyone  else's.  She  thinks  I'm  doing  all  this  work 
solely  in  order  to  help  her  school — when  if  she'd  use 
some  imagination  and  try  to  put  herself  in  my  shoes,  she'd 
see  the  chance  it's  giving  me!" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Roger,  looking  a  bit  be 
wildered. 

"Why,"  said  Baird  with  an  impatient  fling  of  his  hand, 
"there  are  men  in  my  line  all  over  the  country  who'd 
leave  home,  wives  and  children  for  the  chance  I've  blun 
dered  onto  here!  A  hospital  fully  equipped  for  research, 
a  free  hand,  an  opportunity  which  comes  to  one  man  in  a 
million!  But  can  she  see  it?  Not  at  all!  It's  only  an 
annex  to  her  school! " 

y"  Yes,"  said  Roger  gravely,  "she's  in  a  pretty  unnatural 
state.  I  think  she  ought  to  get  married,  Baird — "  To  his 
friendly  and  disarming  twinkle  Baird  replied  with  a  rueful 
smile. 

.  .  •  "You  do,  eh,"  he  growled.  "Then  tell  her  to  plan  her 
wedding  to  come  before  her  funeral."  As  he  rose  to  go, 
Roger  took  his  hand. 

"I'll  tell  her,"  he  said.  "It's  sound  advice.  Good 
night,  my  boy,  I  wish  you  luck." 

A  few  moments  later  he  heard  in  the  hall  their  brief 


HIS  FAMILY  143 

good-nights  to  each  other,  and  presently  Deborah  came 
in.  She  was  not  looking  quite  herself. 

"  Why  are  you  eyeing  me  like  that?"  his  daughter  asked 
abruptly. 

"  Aren't  you  letting  him  do  a  good  deal  for  you?" 

Deborah  flushed  a  little: 

"Yes,  I  am.    I  can't  make  him  stop." 

Her  father  hesitated. 

"  You  could,"  he  said,  "if  you  wanted  to.  If  you  were 
sure,"  he  added  slowly,  "that  you  didn't  love  him — and 
told  him  so."  He  felt  a  little  panic,  for  he  thought  he 
had  gone  too  far.  But  his  daughter  only  turned  away 
and  restlessly  moved  about  the  room.  At  last  she  came 
to  her  father's  chair: 

"Hadn't  you  better  leave  this  to  me?" 

"I  had,  my  dear,  I  most  certainly  had.  I  was  all  wrong 
to  mention  it,"  he  answered  very  humbly. 

From  this  night  on,  Baird  changed  his  tack.  Although 
soon  busy  with  the  plans  for  the  hospital,  to  be  built  at 
once,  he  said  little  about  it  to  Deborah.  Instead,  he 
insisted  on  taking  her  off  on  little  evening  sprees  uptown. 

"Do  you  know  what's  the  matter  with  both  of  us?"  he 
said  to  her  one  evening.  "We've  been  getting  too  durned 
devoted  to  our  jobs  and  our  ideals.  You're  becoming  a 
regular  school  marm  and  I'm  getting  to  be  a  regular  slave 
to  every  wretched  little  babe  who  takes  it  into  his  head 
to  be  born.  We  haven't  one  redeeming  vice." 

And  again  he  took  up  dancing.  The  first  effort  which 
he  made,  down  at  Deborah's  school  one  evening,  was 
a  failure  quite  as  dismal  as  his  attempts  of  the  previous 
year.  But  he  did  not  appear  in  the  least  discouraged. 
He  came  to  the  house  one  Friday  night. 

"I  knew  I  could  learn  to  dance,"  he  said,  "in  spite  of 
all  your  taunts  and  jibes.  That  little  fiasco  last  Saturday 
night—" 


144  HIS  FAMILY 

"Was  perfectly  awful,"  Deborah  said. 

"Did  not  discourage  me  in  the  least,"  he  continued 
severely.  "I  decided  the  only  trouble  with  me  was  that 
I'm  tall  and  I've  got  to  bend — to  learn  to  bend." 

"Tremendously!" 

"So  I  went  to  a  lady  professor,  and  she  saw  the  point 
at  once.  Since  then  I've  had  five  lessons,  and  I  can  fox 
trot  in  my  sleep.  To-morrow  is  Saturday.  Where  shall 
we  go?" 

"To  the  theater." 

"Good.  We'll  start  with  that.  But  the  minute  the 
play  is  over  we'll  gallop  off  to  the  Plaza  Grill — just  as  the 
music  is  in  full  swing — " 

"And  we'll  dance,"  she  groaned,  "for  hours.  And  when 
I  get  home,  I'll  creep  into  bed  so  tired  and  sore  in  every 
limb—" 

"That  you'll  sleep  late  Sunday  morning.  And  a  mighty 
good  thing  for  you,  too — if  you  ask  my  advice — " 

"I  don't  ask  your  advice!" 

"You're  getting  it,  though,"  he  said  doggedly.  "If 
you're  still  to  be  a  friend  of  mine  we'll  dance  at  the  Plaza 
to-morrow  night — and  well  into  the  Sabbath." 

"The  principal  of  a  public  school — dancing  on  the  Sab 
bath.  Suppose  one  of  my  friends  should  see  us  there." 

"Your  friends,"  he  replied  with  a  fine  contempt,  "do  not 
dance  in  the  Plaza  Grill.  I'm  the  only  roisterer  you 
know." 

"All  right,"  she  conceded  grudgingly,  "I'll  roister. 
Come  and  get  me.  But  I'd  much  prefer  when  the  play  is 
done  to  come  home  and  have  milk  and  crackers  here." 

"Deborah,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "for  a  radical  school 
reformer  you're  the  most  conservative  woman  I  know." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  Deborah's  school,  in  the  meantime,  affairs  had  drawn 
to  a  climax.  The  moment  had  come  for  the  city  to  say 
whether  her  new  experiment  should  be  dropped  the  fol 
lowing  year  or  allowed  to  go  on  and  develop.  There  came 
a  day  of  sharp  suspense  when  Deborah's  friends  and 
enemies  on  the  Board  of  Education  sat  down  to  discuss 
and  settle  her  fate.  They  were  at  it  for  several  hours,  but 
late  in  the  afternoon  they  decided  not  only  to  let  her  go 
on  the  next  year  but  to  try  her  idea  in  four  other  schools 
and  place  her  in  charge  with  ample  funds.  The  long  strain 
came  to  an  end  at  last  in  a  triumph  beyond  her  wildest 
hopes;  when  the  news  arrived  she  relaxed,  grew  limp,  and 
laughed  and  cried  a  little.  And  her  father  felt  her  tremble 
as  he  held  her  a  moment  in  his  arms. 

"Now,  Baird,"  he  thought,  "your  chance  has  come. 
For  God's  sake,  take  it  while  it's  here!" 

But  in  place  of  Baird  that  afternoon  came  men  and 
women  from  the  press,  and  friends  and  fellow  workers. 
The  door-bell  and  the  telephone  kept  ringing  almost  in 
cessantly.  Why  couldn't  they  leave  her  a  moment's  peace? 
Roger  buried  himself  in  his  study.  Later,  when  he  was 
called  to  dinner,  he  found  that  Allan  was  there,  too, 
but  at  first  the  conversation  was  all  upon  Deborah's  vic 
tory.  Flushed  with  success,  for  the  moment  engrossed 
in  the  wider  field  she  saw  ahead,  she  had  not  a  thought 
for  anything  else.  But  after  dinner  the  atmosphere 
changed. 

"To  hear  me  talk,"  she  told  them,  "you'd  think  the 
whole  world  depended  on  me,  and  on  my  school  and  my 

145 


146  HIS  FAMILY 

ideas.    Me,  me,  me!    And  it  has  been  me  all  winter  long! 
What  a  time  I've  given  both  of  you!" 

She  grew  repentant  and  grateful,  first  to  her  father  and 
then  to  Allan,  and  then  more  and  more  to  Allan,  with 
her  happy  eyes  on  his.  And  with  a  keen  worried  look  at 
them  both,  Roger  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Baird  was  leaning  forward.  He  had  both  her  hands 
in  his  own. 

"  Well? "  he  asked.    "  Will  you  marry  me  now?  " 

Her  eyes  were  looking  straight  into  his.  They  kept 
moving  slightly,  searching  his.  Her  wide,  sensitive  lips 
were  tightly  compressed,  but  did  not  quite  hide  their  quiver 
ing.  When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  low  and  a  little  queer 
and  breathless: 

"Do  you  want  any  children,  Allan? " 

"Yes." 

"So  do  I.    And  with  children,  what  of  my  work?" 

"I  don't  want  to  stop  your  work.  If  you  marry  me 
we'll  go  right  on.  You  see  I  know  you,  Deborah,  I  know 
you've  always  grown  like  that — -by  risking  what  you've 
got  to-day  for  something  more  to-morrow." 

"I've  never  taken  a  risk  like  this!" 

"I  tell  you  this  time  it's  no  risk!  Because  you're  a 
grown  woman — formed!  I'm  not  making  a  saint  of  you. 
You're  no  angel  down  among  the  poor  because  you  feel 
it's  your  duty  in  life — it's  your  happiness,  your  passion! 
You  couldn't  neglect  them  if  you  tried!" 

"But  the  time,"  she  asked  him  quickly.  "Where  shall 
I  find  the  time  for  it  all?" 

"A  man  finds  time  enough,"  he  answered,  "even  when 
he's  married." 

"But  I'm  not  a  man,  I'm  a  woman,"  she  said.  And 
in  a  low  voice  which  thrilled  him,  "A  woman  who  wants  a 
child  of  her  own!"  His  lean  muscular  right  hand  con 
tracted  sharply  upon  hers.  She  winced,  drew  back  a  little. 


HIS  FAMILY  147 

"Oh — I'm  sorry!"  he  whispered.  Then  he  asked  her 
again, 

"Will  you  marry  me  now?"  She  looked  suddenly  up: 
"Let's  wait  awhile,  please!  It  won't  be  long — I'm  in 
love  with  you,  Allan,  I'm  sure  of  that  now!  And  I'm  not 
drawing  back,  I'm  not  afraid!  Oh,  I  want  you  to  feel 
I'm  not  running  away!  What  I  want  to  do  is  to  face  this 
square!  It  may  be  silly  and  foolish  but — you  see,  I'm 
made  like  that.  I  want  a  little  longer — I  want  to  think  it 
out  by  myself." 

When  Allan  had  gone  she  came  in  to  her  father.  And 
her  radiant  expression  made  him  bounce  up  from  his  chair. 

"By  George,"  he  cried,  "he  asked  you!" 

"Yes!" 

"And  you've  taken  him!" 

"No!" 

Roger  gasped. 

"Look  here!"  he  demanded,  angrily.  "What's  the 
matter?  Are  you  mad?"  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed  at  him. 

"No,  I'm  not—I'm  happy!" 

"What  the  devil  about?"  he  snapped. 

"We're  going  to  wait  a  bit,  that's  all,  till  we're  sure  of 
everything!"  she  cried. 

"Then,"  said  Roger  disgustedly,  "you're  smarter  than 
your  father  is.  I'm  sure  of  nothing — nothing!  I  have 
never  been  sure  in  all  my  days!  If  I'd  waited,  you'd  never 
have  been  born!" 

"Oh,  dearie,"  she  begged  him  smilingly.  "Please  don't 
be  so  unhappy  just  now — " 

"I've  a  right  to  be!"  said  Roger.  "I  see  my  house 
agog  with  this — in  a  turmoil — in  a  turmoil!" 

But  again  he  was  mistaken.  It  was  in  fact  astonishing 
how  the  old  house  quieted  down.  There  came  again  one 


148  HIS  FAMILY 

of  those  peaceful  times,  when  his  home  to  Roger's  senses 
seemed  to  settle  deep,  grow  still,  and  gather  itself  together. 
Day  by  day  he  felt  more  sure  that  Deborah  was  succeeding 
in  making  her  work  fit  into  her  swiftly  deepening  passion 
for  a  full  happy  woman's  life.  And  why  shouldn't  they 
live  here,  Allan  and  she?  The  thought  of  this  dispelled 
the  cloud  which  hung  over  the  years  he  saw  ahead.  How 
smoothly  things  were  working  out.  The  monstrous  new 
buildings  around  his  house  seemed  to  him  to  draw  back 
as  though  balked  of  their  prey. 

On  the  mantle  in  Roger's  study,  for  many  years  a  bronze 
figure  there,  "The  Thinker,"  huge  and  naked,  forbidding 
in  its  crouching  pose,  the  heavy  chin  on  one  clenched  fist, 
had  brooded  down  upon  him.  And  in  the  years  that  had 
been  so  dark,  it  had  been  a  figure  of  despair.  Often  he  had 
looked  up  from  his  chair  and  grimly  met  its  frowning  gaze. 
But  Roger  seldom  looked  at  it  now,  and  even  when  it 
caught  his  eye  it  had  little  effect  upon  him.  It  appeared 
to  brood  less  darkly.  For  though  he  did  not  think  it  out, 
there  was  this  feeling  in  his  mind: 

"There  is  to  be  nothing  startling  in  this  quiet  home  of 
mine,  no  crashing  deep  calamity  here." 

Only  the  steadily  deepening  love  between  a  grown  man 
and  a  woman  mature,  both  sensible,  strong  people  with  a 
firm  control  of  their  destinies.  He  felt  so  sure  of  this 
affair.  For  now,  her  tension  once  relaxed  with  the  success 
which  had  come  to  her  after  so  many  long  hard  years,  a 
new  Deborah  was  revealed,  more  human  in  her  yieldings. 
She  let  Allan  take  her  off  on  the  wildest  little  sprees  uptown 
and  out  into  the  country.  To  Roger  she  seemed  younger, 
more  warm  and  joyous  and  more  free.  He  loved  to  hear 
her  laugh  these  nights,  to  catch  the  glad  new  tones  in  her 
voice. 

"There  is  to  be  no  tragedy  here." 

So,  certain  of  this  union  and  wistful  for  all  he  felt  it 
would  bring,  Roger  watched  its  swift  approach.  And 


HIS  FAMILY  149 

when  the  news  came,  he  was  sure  he'd  been  right.  Because 
it  came  so  quietly. 

"It's  settled,  dear,  at  last  it's  sure.  Allan  and  I  are  to  be 
married."  She  was  standing  by  his  chair.  Roger  reached 
up  and  took  her  hand: 

"I'm  glad.    You'll  be  very  happy,  my  child." 

She  bent  over  and  kissed  him,  and  putting  his  arm 
around  her  he  drew  her  down  on  the  side  of  his  chair. 

"Now  tell  me  all  your  plans,"  he  said.  And  her  answer 
brought  him  a  deep  peace.  , 

"We're  going  abroad  for  the  summer — and  then  if 
you'll  have  us  we  want  to  come  here."  Roger  abruptly 
shut  his  eyes. 

"By  George,  Deborah,"  he  said,  "you  do  have  a  way  of 
getting  right  into  the  heai-t  of  things!"  His  arm  closed 
about  her  with  new  strength  and  he  felt  all  his  troubles 
flying  away. 

"What  a  time  we'll  have,  what  a  rich  new  life."  Her 
deep  sweet  voice  was  a  little  unsteady.  "Listen,  dearie, 
how  quiet  it  is."  And  for  some  moments  nothing  was 
heard  but  the  sober  tick-tick  of  the  clock  on  the  mantle. 
"I  wonder  what  we're  going  to  hear." 

And  they  thought  of  new  voices  in  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EDITH  was  radiant  at  the  news. 

"I  do  hope  they're  not  going  to  grudge  themselves  a 
good  long  wedding  trip!"  she  exclaimed. 

" They're  going  abroad,"   said  Roger. 

"Oh,  splendid!    And  the  wedding!    Church  or  home?" 

"Home,"  said  Roger  blissfully,  "and  short  and  simple, 
not  a  frill.  Just  the  family." 

"Oh,  that's  so  nice,"  sighed  Edith.  "I  was  afraid  she'd 
want  to  drag  in  her  school." 

"School  will  be  out  by  then,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  hope  it  stays  out — for  the  remainder  of  her 
days.  She  can't  do  both,  and  she'll  soon  see.  Wait  till 
she  has  a  child  of  her  own." 

"Well,  she  wants  one  bad  enough." 

"Yes,  but  can  she?"  Edith  asked,  with  the  engrossed 
expression  which  came  on  her  pretty  florid  face  whenever 
she  neared  such  a  topic.  She  spoke  with  evident  awk 
wardness.  "  That's  the  trouble.  Is  it  too  late?  Deborah's 
thirty-one,  you  know,  and  she  has  lived  her  life  so  hard. 
The  sooner  she  gives  up  her  school  the  better  for  her 
chances." 

The  face  of  her  father  clouded. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  uneasily,  "I  wouldn't  go  talking 
to  her — quite  along  those  lines,  my  dear." 

"I'm  not  such  an  idiot,"  she  replied.  "She  thinks  me 
homely  enough  as  it  is.  And  she's  not  altogether  wrong. 
Bruce  and  I  were  talking  it  over  last  night.  We  want  to 
be  closer,  after  this,  to  Deborah  and  Allan.  Bruce  says  it 
will  do  us  all  good,  and  for  once  I  think  he's  right.  I  have 
given  too  much  time  to  my  children,  and  Bruce  to  his 

150 


HIS  FAMILY  151 

office — I  see  it  now.    Not  that  I  regret  it,  but — well,  we're 
going  to  blossom  out." 

She  struck  the  same  note  with  Deborah.  And  so  did 
Bruce. 

"Oh,  Deborah  dear,"  he  said  smiling,  when  he  found 
a  chance  to  see  her  alone,  "if  you  knew  how  long  I've 
waited  for  this  big  fine  thing  to  happen.  A.  Baird  is  my 
best  chum  in  the  world.  Don't  yank  him  gently  away 
from  us  now.  We'll  keep  close — eh? — all  four  of  us." 

"Very,"  said  Deborah  softly. 

"And  you  mustn't  get  too  solemn,  you  know.  You 
won't  pull  too  much  of  the  highbrow  stuff." 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"That's  the  right  idea.  We'll  have  some  fine  little  par 
ties  together.  You  and  A.  Baird  will  give  us  a  hand  and 
get  us  out  in  the  evenings.  We  need  it,  God  knows,  we've 
been  getting  old."  Deborah  threw  him  a  glance  of  affec 
tion. 

"Why,  Brucie,"  she  said,  in  admiring  tones,  "I  knew 
you  had  it  in  you." 

"So  has  Edith,"  he  sturdily  declared.  "She  only  needs 
a  little  shove.  We'll  show  you  two  that  we're  regular 
fellows.  Don't  you  be  all  school  and  we  won't  be  all  home. 
We'll  jump  out  of  our  skins  and  be  young  again." 

In  pursuance  of  this  gay  resolve,  Bruce  planned  fre 
quent  parties  to  theaters  and  musical  shows,  and  to 
Edith's  consternation  he  even  began  to  look  about  for  a 
teacher  from  whom  he  could  learn  to  dance.  "A.  Baird," 
he  told  her  firmly,  "isn't  going  to  be  the  only  soubrette 
in  this  family." 

One  of  the  most  hilarious  of  these  small  celebrations 
came  early  in  June,  when  they  dined  all  four  together  and 
went  to  the  summer's  opening  of  "The  Follies  of  1914." 
The  show  rather  dragged  a  bit  at  first,  but  when  Bert 


152  HIS  FAMILY 

Williams  took  the  stage  Bruce's  laugh  became  so  conta 
gious  that  people  in  seats  on  every  hand  turned  to  look  at 
him  and  join  in  his  glee.  Only  one  thing  happened  to  mar 
the  evening's  pleasure.  When  they  came  outside  the  thea 
ter  Bruce  found  in  his  car  something  wrong  with  the  en 
gine.  He  tinkered  but  it  would  not  go.  Allan  hailed  a 
taxi. 

"Why  not  come  with  us?"  asked  Deborah. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Bruce.  "I've  got  this  car  to  look 
after." 

"Oh,  let  it  wait,"  urged  Allan. 

"It  does  look  a  little  like  rain,"  put  in  Edith.  Bruce 
glanced  up  at  the  cloudy  sky  and  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Rain,  piffle,"  he  said  good-humoredly.  "Come  on, 
wifey,  stick  by  me.  I  won't  be  long."  And  he  and 
Edith  went  back  to  his  car. 

"What  a  dear  he  is,"  said  Deborah.  Allan  put  his  arm 
around  her,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  It 
was  only  nine  days  to  the  wedding. 

Out  of  the  street's  commotion  came  a  sharp  cry  of  warn 
ing.  It  was  followed  by  a  shriek  and  a  crash.  Allan 
looked  out  of  the  window,  and  then  with  a  low  exclama 
tion  he  jumped  from  the  taxi  and  slammed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ROGER  had  been  spending  a  long  quiet  evening  at  home. 
He  had  asked  John  to  dine  with  him  and  they  had  chatted 
for  a  time.  Then  John  had  started  up  to  his  room.  And 
listening  to  the  slow  shuffling  step  of  the  cripple  going 
upstairs,  Roger  had  thought  of  the  quick  eager  feet  and 
the  sudden  scampers  that  would  be  heard  as  the  silent 
old  house  renewed  its  life.  Later  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

He  awakened  with  a  start.  The  telephone  bell  was 
ringing. 

"Nice  time  to  be  calling  folks  out  of  bed,"  he  grumbled, 
as  he  went  into  the  hall.  The  next  moment  he  heard 
Deborah's  voice.  It  was  clear  and  sharp  with  a  note  of 
alarm. 

"Father — it's  I!  You  must  come  to  Edith's  apartment 
at  once!  Bruce  is  hurt  badly!  Come  at  once!" 

When  Roger  reached  the  apartment,  it  was  Deborah 
who  opened  the  door.  Her  face  had  changed,  it  was  drawn 
and  gray.  She  took  him  into  the  living  room. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  harshly. 

"It  was  just  outside  the  theater.  Bruce  and  Edith 
were  out  in  the  street  and  got  caught  by  some  idiot  of 
a  chauffeur.  Bruce  threw  Edith  out  of  the  way,  but  just 
as  he  did  it  he  himself  got  struck  in  the  back  and  went 
under  a  wheel.  Allan  brought  him  here  at  once,  while  I 
telephoned  for  a  friend  of  his — a  surgeon.  They're  with 
Bruce  now." 

"Where's  Edith?" 

"She's  trying  to  quiet  the  children.  They  all  woke 
up — "  Deborah  frowned — "when  he  was  brought  in,"  she 
added. 

153 


154  HIS  FAMILY 

"Well!"  breathed  Roger.  "I  declare!"  Dazed  and 
stunned,  he  sank  into  a  chair.  Soon  the  door  opened  and 
Allan  came  in. 

"He's  gone,"  he  said.  And  Deborah  jumped.  "No, 
no,  I  meant  the  doctor." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"Bruce  can't  live,"  said  Allan  gently.  In  the  tense 
silence  there  came  a  chill.  "And  he  knows  it,"  Allan 
added.  "He  made  me  tell  him — he  said  he  must  know — 
for  business  reasons.  He  wants  to  see  you  both  at  once, 
before  Edith  gets  that  child  asleep." 

As  they  entered  the  room  they  saw  Bruce  on  his  bed. 
He  was  breathing  quickly  through  his  narrow  tight-set 
jaws  and  staring  up  at  the  ceiling  with  a  straining  fixed 
intensity.  As  they  entered  he  turned  his  head.  His 
eyes  met  theirs  and  lighted  up  in  a  hard  and  terrible 
manner. 

"I'm  not  leaving  them  a  dollar!"  he  cried. 

"We'll  see  to  them,  boy,"  said  Roger,  hoarsely,  but 
Bruce  had  already  turned  to  Baird. 

"I  make  you  my  executor,  Allan — don't  need  it  in  writ 
ing — there  isn't  time."  He  drew  a  sudden  quivering 
breath.  " I  have  no  will,"  he  muttered  on.  "Never  made 
one — never  thought  of  this.  Business  life  just  starting — 
booming! — and  I  put  in  every  cent!"  There  broke  from 
him  a  low,  bitter  groan.  "Made  my  money  settling  other 
men's  muddles!  Never  thought  of  making  this  mess  of 
my  own!  But  even  in  mine — I  could  save  something 
still — if  I  could  be  there — if  I  could  be  there — " 

The  sweat  broke  out  on  his  temples,  and  Deborah  laid 
her  hand  on  his  head.  "Sh-h-h,"  she  breathed.  He  shut 
his  eyes. 

"Hard  to  think  of  anything  any  more.  I  can't  keep 
clear."  He  shuddered  with  pain.  "Fix  me  for  them,''  he 
muttered  to  Baird.  "George  and  his  mother.  Fix  me 
up — give  me  a  couple  of  minutes  clear.  And  Deborah — 


HIS  FAMILY  155 

when  you  bring  'em  in — don't  let  'em  know.  You  under 
stand?  No  infernal  last  good-byes!"  Deborah  sharply 
set  her  teeth. 

"No,  dear,  no,"  she  whispered.  She  followed  her  father 
out  of  the  room,  leaving  Allan  bending  over  the  bed  with 
a  hypodermic  in  his  hand.  And  when,  a  few  moments 
later,  George  came  in  with  his  mother,  they  found  Bruce 
soothed  and  quieted.  He  even  smiled  as  he  reached  up 
his  hand. 

"They  say  I've  got  to  sleep,  old  girl — just  sleep  and 
sleep — it'll  do  me  good.  So  you  mustn't  stay  in  the  room 
to-night.  Stay  with  the  kiddies  and  get  'em  to  sleep." 
He  was  still  smiling  up  at  her.  "They  say  it'll  be  a 
long  time,  little  wife — and  I'm  so  sorry — I  was  to  blame. 
If  I'd  done  as  you  wanted  and  gone  in  their  taxi.  Re 
member?  You  said  it  might  rain."  He  turned  to  George: 
"Look  here,  my  boy,  I'm  counting  on  you.  I'll  be  sick, 
you  know — no  good  at  all.  You  must  stand  by  your 
mother." 

George  gulped  awkwardly: 

"Sure  I  will,  dad."  His  father  sharply  pressed  his 
hand: 

"That's  right,  old  fellow,  I  know  what  you  are.  Now 
good-night,  son.  Good-night,  Edith  dear."  He  looked  at 
her  steadily  just  for  a  moment,  then  closed  his  eyes.  "  Oh, 
but  I'm  sleepy," -he  murmured.  "Good-night." 

And  they  left  him.  AJone  with  Allan,  Bruce  looked  up 
with  a  savage  glare. 

"Look  here!"  he  snarled,  between  his  teeth.  "If  you 
think  I'm  going  to  lie  here  and  die  you're  mistaken!  I 
won't!  I  won't  let  go!  I'll  show  you  chaps  you  can 
be  wrong!  Been  wrong  before,  haven't  you,  thousands 
of  times!  Why  be  so  damnably  sure  about  me? "  He  fell 
back  suddenly,  limp  and  weak.  "So  damnably  sure," 
he  panted. 

"We're  never  sure,  my  dear  old  boy,"  said  Allan  very 


156  HIS  FAMILY 

tenderly.  Again  he  was  bending  close  over  the  bed. 
"  We're  not  sure  yet — by  any  means.  You're  so  strong, 
old  chap,  so  amazingly  strong.  You've  given  me  hope — " 

"What  are  you  sticking  into  my  arm?"  But  Allan 
kept  talking  steadily  on: 

"  You've  given  me  hope  you'll  pull  through  still.  But 
not  like  this.  You've  got  to  rest.  Let  go,  and  try  to  go 
to  sleep." 

"I'm  afraid  to,"  came  the  whisper.  But  soon,  as  again 
the  drug  took  hold,  he  mumbled  in  a  drowsy  tone,  "Afraid 
to  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  Say,  Allan — get  Deborah 
in  here,  will  you — just  for  a  minute.  One  thing  more." 

When  she  came,  he  did  not  open  his  eyes. 

"That  you,  Deborah?  Where's  your  hand?  .  .  .  Oh— 
there  it  is.  Just  one  more  point.  You — you — "  Again 
his  mind  wandered,  but  with  an  effort  he  brought  it  back. 
"You  and  Edith,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.  "So — so — so 
different.  Not — not  like  each  other  at  all.  But  you'll 
stick  together — eh?  Always — always.  Don't  let  go — I 
mean  of  my  hand." 

"No,  dear,  no." 

And  with  her  hand  holding  his,  she  sat  for  a  long  time 
perfectly  still.  Then  the  baby  was  heard  crying,  and 
Deborah  went  to  the  nursery. 

"Now,  Edith,  I'll  see  to  the  children,"  she  said.  "Allan 
says  you  can  go  to  Bruce  if  you  like." 

Edith  looked  up  at  Deborah  quickly,  and  as  quickly 
turned  away.  She  went  in  to  her  husband.  And  there, 
hour  by  hour  through  the  night,  while  he  lay  inert  with 
his  hand  in  hers,  little  by  little  she  understood.  But  she 
asked  no  question  of  anyone. 

At  last  Bruce  stirred  a  little  and  began  breathing  deep 
and  fast. 

And  so  death  came  into  the  family. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ROGER  went  through  the  next  two  days  in  a  kind  of  a 
stupor.  He  remembered  holding  Edith  and  feeling  her 
shudder  as  though  from  a  chill.  He  remembered  being 
stopped  in  the  hall  by  George  who  had  dressed  himself 
with  care  in  his  first  suit  with  long  trousers.  "I  just 
wanted  you  to  remember/'  the  boy  whispered  solemnly, 
"that  I'm  nearly  sixteen  and  I'll  be  here.  He  said  to 
stand  by  her  and  I  will."  The  rest  of  that  ghastly  time 
was  a  blank,  punctuated  by  small  quiet  orders  which  Roger 
obeyed.  Thank  God,  Deborah  was  there,  and  she  was 
attending  to  everything. 

But  when  at  last  it  was  over,  and  Roger  had  spent  the 
next  day  in  his  office,  had  found  it  impossible  to  work 
and  so  had  gone  home  early,  Deborah  came  to  him  in  his 
room. 

"Now  we  must  have  a  talk,"  she  said.  "Allan  has  gone 
through  Bruce's  affairs,  and  there  are  still  debts  to  be 
settled,  it  seems." 

"How  much  do  they  come  to,  Deborah?" 

"About  five  thousand  dollars,"  she  said.  And  for  a 
moment  neither  spoke.  "  I  wish  I  could  help  you  out,"  she 
went  on,  "but  I  have  nothing  saved  and  neither  has  Allan. 
We've  both  kept  using  our  money  downtown — except  just 
enough  for  the  trip  abroad — and  we'll  need  almost  all  of 
that  to  settle  for  the  funeral." 

"I  can  manage,"  Roger  said,  and  again  there  was  a 
silence. 

"Edith  will  have  to  come  here  to  live,"  Deborah  said 
presently.  Her  father's  heavy  face  grew  stern. 

157 


158  HIS  FAMILY 

"I'd  thought  of  that,"  he  answered.  "But  it  will  be 
hard  on  her,  Deborah — " 

"I  know  it  will — but  I  don't  see  anything  else  to  be 
done."  The  deep  quiet  voice  of  his  daughter  grew  sweet 
with  pity  as  she  spoke.  "At  least  we  can  try  to  make  it  a 
little  easier  for  her.  You  can  take  her  up  to  the  mountains 
and  I  can  close  her  apartment.  But  of  course  she  won't 
agree  to  it  unless  she  knows  how  matters  stand."  Deb 
orah  waited  a  little.  "  Don't  you  think  you're  the  best  one 
to  tell  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Roger,  after  a  pause. 

"Then  suppose  we  go  to  her.  I'm  sleeping  up  there 
for  the  next  few  nights." 

They  found  Edith  in  her  living  room.  She  had  sent  the 
nurse  out,  put  the  children  to  bed,  and  left  alone  with 
nothing  to  do  she  had  sat  facing  her  first  night.  Her 
light  soft  hair  was  disheveled,  her  pretty  features  pale 
and  set.  But  the  moment  Roger  entered  he  saw  that  she 
had  herself  in  hand. 

"Well,  father,"  she  said  steadily.  "You'd  better  tell 
me  about  our  affairs.  My  affairs,"  she  corrected  herself. 
When  he  had  explained,  she  was  silent  a  moment,  and 
then  in  a  voice  harsh,  bitter,  abrupt,  "That  will  be  hard 
on  the  children,"  she  said.  On  an  impulse  he  started  to 
take  her  hand,  but  she  drew  a  little  away  from  him. 

"The  children,  my  dear,"  he  said  huskily,  "will  be 
taken  care  of  always." 

"Yes."  And  again  she  was  silent.  "I've  been  thinking 
I'd  like  to  go  up  to  the  mountains — right  away,"  she 
continued. 

"Just  our  idea,"  he  told  her.  "Deborah  will  arrange 
it  at  once." 

"That's  good  of  Deborah,"  she  replied.  And  after  an 
other  pause:  "But  take  her  home  with  you — will  you? 
I'd  rather  not  have  her  here  to-night." 


HIS  FAMILY  159 

"I  think  she'd  better  stay,  my  dear." 

"  All  right."  In  a  tone  of  weariness.  " Madge  Deering 
called  me  up  to-night.  She's  coming  in  town  to-morrow, 
and  sfte  means  to  stay  till  I  go." 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said  approvingly.  Madge  had  been 
a  widow  for  years.  Living  out  in  Morristown  with  four 
daughters  to  bring  up,  she  had  determinedly  fought  her 
way  and  had  not  only  regained  her  hold  but  had  even 
grown  in  strength  and  breadth  since  the  death  of  her 
husband  long  ago.  "  I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "  You  and  Madge 
— "he  paused. 

"Yes,  we'll  have  a  good  deal  in  common,"  Edith  finished 
out  his  thought.  "You  look  tired,  dad.  Hadn't  you 
better  go  home  now?"  she  suggested  after  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  said  Roger,  rising.  "Good-night,  my  child. 
Remember." 

In  the  outer  hallway  he  found  Deborah  with  Laura. 
Laura  had  been  here  several  times.  She  was  getting 
Edith's  mourning. 

"There's  a  love  of  a  hat  at  Thurn's,"  she  was  saying 
softly,  "if  only  we  can  get  her  to  wear  it.  It's  just  her 
type."  And  Laura  drew  an  anxious  breath.  "Anything," 
she  added,  "to  escape  that  hideous  heavy  crepe." 

Roger  slightly  raised  his  brows.  He  noticed  a  faint 
delicious  perfume  that  irritated  him  suddenly.  But  glanc 
ing  again  at  his  daughter,  trim,  fresh  and  so  immaculate, 
the  joy  of  life  barely  concealed  in  her  eyes,  he  stopped  and 
talked  and  smiled  at  her,  as  Deborah  was  doing,  enjoying 
her  beauty  and  her  youth,  her  love  and  all  her  happiness. 
And  though  they  spoke  of  her  sister,  she  knew  they  were 
thinking  of  herself,  and  that  it  was  quite  right  they  should, 
for  it  gave  them  a  little  relief  from  their  gloom.  She  was 
honestly  sorry  for  Edith,  but  she  was  sorrier  still  for  Bruce, 
who  she  knew  had  always  liked  her  more  than  he  would 
have  cared  to  say.  She  was  sorrier  for  Bruce  because, 
while  Edith  had  lost  only  her  husband,  Bruce  had  lost 


160  HIS  FAMILY 

his  very  life.  And  life  meant  so  much  to  Laura,  these  days, 
the  glowing,  coursing,  vibrant  life  of  her  warm  beautiful 
body.  She  was  thinking  of  that  as  she  stood  in  the  hall. 

In  the  evening,  at  home  in  his  study,  Roger  heard  a 
slight  knock  at  the  door.  He  looked  up  and  saw  John. 

"May  I  come  in,  Mr.  Gale,  for  a  minute?" 

"Yes,  my  boy."    John  hobbled  in. 

"Only  a  minute."  His  voice  was  embarrassed.  "Just 
two  or  three  things  I  thought  of,"  he  said.  "The  first 
was  about  your  son-in-law.  You  see,  I  was  his  stenog 
rapher — and  while  I  was  in  his  office — 'this  morning  help 
ing  Doctor  Baird — I  found  a  good  deal  I  can  do  there 
still — about  things  no  one  remembers  but  me.  So  I'll  stay 
there  awhile,  if  it's  all  right.  Only — "  he  paused — "with 
out  any  pay.  See  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Roger.  "And  you'd  better  stay — in 
that  way  if  you  like." 

"Thanks,"  said  John.  "Then  about  his  wife  and 
family.  You're  to  take  them  up  to  the  mountains,  I  hear 
— and — well,  before  this  happened  you  asked  me  up  this 
summer.  But  I  guess  I'd  better  not." 

"I  don't  think  you'd  be  in  the  way,  my  boy." 

"I'd  rather  stay  here,  if  you  don't  mind.  When  I'm 
through  in  your  son-in-law's  office  I  thought  I  might  go 
back  to  yours.  I  could  send  you  your  mail  every  two  or 
three  days." 

"I'd  like  that,  John — it  will  be  a  great  help." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Gale."  John  stopped  at  the  door.  "And 
Miss  Deborah,"  he  ventured.  "Is  she  to  get  married  just 
the  same?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so — later  on." 

"Good-night,  sir."  * 

And  John  went  out  of  the  room. 

When  would  Deborah  be  married?  It  came  over  Roger, 
when  he  was  alone,  how  his  family  had  shifted  its  center. 


HIS  FAMILY  161 

Deborah  would  have  come  here  to  live,  to  love  and  be 
happy,  a  mother  perhaps,  but  now  she  must  find  a  home 
of  her  own.  In  her  place  would  come  Edith  with  her 
children.  All  would  center  on  her  in  her  grief. 

And  for  no  cause!  Just  a  trick  of  chance,  a  street 
accident !  And  Roger  grew  bitter  and  rebelled.  Bruce  was 
not  the  one  of  the  family  to  die.  Bruce,  so  shrewd  and 
vigorous,  so  vital,  the  practical  man  of  affairs.  Bruce  had 
been  going  the  pace  that  kills — yes,  Roger  had  often 
thought  of  it.  But  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  this! 
If  Bruce  had  died  at  fifty,  say,  as  a  result  of  the  life  he  had 
chosen,  the  fierce  exhausting  city  which  he  had  loved  as  a 
man  will  love  drink,  then  at  least  there  would  have  been 
some  sense  of  fairness  in  it  all!  If  the  town  had  let  him 
alone  till  his  time!  But  to  be  knocked  down  by  an  auto 
mobile!  The  devilish  irony  of  it!  No  reason — nothing! 
Just  hideous  luck! 

Well,  life  was  like  that.  As  for  Edith  and  her  children, 
he  would  be  glad  to  have  them  here.  Only,  it  would  be 
different,  the  house  would  have  to  change  again.  He 
was  sorry,  too,  for  Deborah.  No  wedding  trip  as  she  had 
planned,  no  home  awaiting  her  return. 

So  his  mind  went  over  his  family. 

But  suddenly  such  thoughts  fell  away  as  trivial  and 
of  small  account.  For  these  people  would  still  be  alive. 
And  Bruce  was  dead,  and  Roger  was  old.  So  he  thought 
about  Bruce  and  about  himself,  and  all  his  children  grew 
remote.  "You  will  live  on  in  our  children's  lives."  Was 
there  no  other  immortality?  The  clock  ticked  on  the 
mantle  and  beside  it  "The  Thinker"  brooded  down. 
And  Roger  looked  up  unafraid,  but  grim  and  gravely 
wondering;. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BUT  there  was  a  rugged  practical  side  to  the  character 
of  Roger  Gale,  and  the  next  morning  he  was  ashamed  of 
the  brooding  thoughts  which  had  come  in  the  night.  He 
shook  them  off  as  morbid,  and  resolutely  set  himself  to 
what  lay  close  before  him.  There  was  work  to  be  done 
on  Bruce's  affairs,  and  the  work  was  a  decided  relief. 
Madge  Deering,  in  the  meantime,  had  offered  to  go  with 
Edith  and  the  children  to  the  mountains  and  see  them  all 
well  settled  there.  And  a  little  talk  he  had  with  Madge 
relieved  his  mind  still  further.  What  a  recovery  she  had 
made  from  the  tragedy  of  years  ago.  How  alert  and  wide 
awake  she  seemed.  If  Edith  could  only  grow  like  that. 

Soon  after  their  departure,  one  night  when  he  was 
dining  alone,  he  had  a  curious  consciousness  of  the  mingled 
presence  of  Edith  and  of  Judith  his  wife.  And  this  feeling 
grew  so  strong  that  several  times  he  looked  about  in  a 
startled,  questioning  manner.  All  at  once  his  eye  was 
caught  by  an  old  mahogany  sideboard.  It  was  Edith's. 
It  had  been  her  mother's.  Edith,  when  she  married,  had 
wanted  something  from  her  old  home.  Well,  now  it  was 
back  in  the  family. 

The  rest  of  Edith's  furniture,  he  learned  from  Deborah 
that  night,  had  been  stored  in  the  top  of  the  house. 

"Most  of  it,"  she  told  him,  "Edith  will  probably  want 
to  use  in  fitting  up  the  children's  rooms."  With  a  twinge 
of  foreboding,  Roger  felt  the  approaching  change  in  his 
home. 

"When  do  you  plan  to  be  married?"  he  asked. 

"About  the  end  of  August.  We  couldn't  very  well 

162 


HIS  FAMILY  163 

till  then,  without  hurting  poor  Edith  a  little,  you  see. 
You  know  how  she  feels  about  such  things — " 

"Yes,  I  guess  you're  right/'  he  agreed. 

How  everything  centered  'round  Edith,  he  thought. 
To  pay  the  debts  which  Bruce  had  left  would  take  all  Roger 
had  on  hand;  and  from  this  time  on  his  expenses,  with  five 
growing  children  here,  would  be  a  fast  increasing  drain. 
He  would  have  to  be  careful  and  husband  his  strength,  a 
thing  he  had  always  .hated  to  do. 

In  the  next  few  weeks,  he  worked  hard  in  his  office. 
He  cut  down  his  smoking,  stayed  home  every  evening  and 
went  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock.  He  tried  to  shut  Deborah  out 
of  his  mind.  As  for  Laura,  he  barely  gave  her  a  thought. 
She  dropped  in  one  evening  to  bid  him  good-bye,  for  this 
summer  again  she  was  going  abroad.  She  and  her  husband, 
she  told  him,  were  to  motor  through  the  Balkans  and  down 
into  Italy.  Her  father  gruffly  answered  that  he  hoped  she 
would  enjoy  herself.  It  seemed  infernally  unfair  that  it 
should  not  be  Deborah  who  was  sailing  the  next  morning. 
But  when  he  felt  himself  growing  annoyed,  abruptly  he 
put  a  check  on  himself.  It  was  Edith  he  must  think  of 
now. 

But  curiously  it  happened,  in  this  narrowing  of  his 
attention,  that  while  he  shut  out  two  of  his  daughters,  a 
mere  outsider  edged  closer  in. 

Johnny  Geer  was  a  great  help.  He  was  back  in  Roger's 
office,  and  with  the  sharp  wits  he  had  gained  in  his 
eighteen  years  of  fighting  for  a  chance  to  stay  alive,  now 
at  Roger's  elbow  John  was  watching  like  a  hawk  for  all 
the  little  ways  and  means  of  pushing  up  the  business. 
What  a  will  the  lad  had  to  down  bodily  ills,  what  vim  in 
the  way  he  tackled  each  job.  His  shrewd  and  cheery 
companionship  was  a  distraction  and  relief.  John  was  so 
funny  sometimes. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Gale,"  he  said,  as  Roger  came  into 
the  office  one  day. 


164  HIS  FAMILY 

"Hello,  Johnny.    How  are  you?"  Roger  replied, 

"Fine,  thank  you."  And  John  went  on  with  his  work 
of  opening  the  morning's  mail.  But  a  few  minutes  later 
he  gave  a  cackling  little  laugh. 

"What's  so  funny?"  Roger  asked. 

"Fellers,"  was  the  answer.  "Fellers.  Human  nature. 
Here's  a  letter  from  Shifty  Sam." 

"Who  the  devil  is  he?    A  friend  of  yours?" 

"No,"  said  John,  "he's  a  'con  man.'  He  works  about 
as  mean  a  graft  as  any  you  ever  heard  of.  He  reads  the 
'ads'  in  the  papers — see? — of  servant  girls  who're  looking 
for  work.  He  makes  a  specialty  of  cooks.  Then  he  goes 
to  where  they  live  and  talks  of  some  nice  family  that  wants 
a  servant  right  away.  He  claims  to  be  the  butler,  and 
he's  dressed  to  look  the  part.  'There  ain't  a  minute  to 
lose/  he  says.  'If  you  want  a  chawnce,  my  girl,  come 
quick.'  He  says  'chawnce'  like  a  butler — see?  'Pack 
your  things,'  he  tells  her,  'and  come  right  along  with  me.' 
So  she  packs  and  hustles  off  with  him — Sam  carrying  her 
suit  case.  He  puts  her  on  a  trolley  and  says,  'I  guess  I'll 
stay  on  the  platform.  I've  got  a  bit  of  a  headache  and 
the  air  will  do  me  good.'  So  he  stays  out  there  with  her 
suit  case — and  as  soon  as  the  car  gets  into  a  crowd,  Sam 
jumps  and  beats  it  with  her  clothes." 

"I  see,"  said  Roger  dryly.  "But  what's  he  writing  you 
about?" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  me  he's  writing  to — it's  you,"  was  John's 
serene  reply.  Roger  started. 

"What?  "he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  the  boy  in  a  cautious  tone,  vigilantly 
eyeing  his  chief,  "you  see,  a  lot  of  these  fellers  like  Sam 
have  been  in  the  papers  lately.  They're  being  called  a 
crime  wave." 

"Well?" 

"Sam  is  up  for  trial  this  week — and  half  the  Irish  cooks 
in  town  are  waiting  'round  to  testify.  And  Shifty  seems 


HIS  FAMILY  165 

to  enjoy  himself.  His  picture's  in  the  papers — see?  And 
he  wants  all  the  clippings.  So  he  encloses  a  five  dollar 
bill." 

"He  does,  eh — well,  you  write  to  Sam  and  send  his 
money  back  to  him!'7  There  was  a  little  silence. 

"But  look  here,"  said  John  with  keen  regret.  "We've 
had  quite  a  lot  of  these  letters  this  week." 

Roger  wheeled  and  looked  at  him. 

"John,"  he  demanded  severely,  "what  game  have  you 
been  up  to  here?" 

"  No  game  at  all,"  was  the  prompt  retort.  "Just  getting 
a  little  business." 

"How?" 

"Well,  there's  a  club  downtown,"  said  John,  "where 
a  lot  of  these  petty  crooks  hang  out.  I  used  to  deliver 
papers  there.  And  I  went  around  one  night  this 
month — " 

"To  drum  up  business?" 

"Yes,  sir."    Roger  looked  at  him  aghast. 

"John,"  he  asked,  in  deep  reproach,  "do  you  expect 
this  office  to  feed  the  vanity  of  thieves?" 

"Where's  the  vanity,"  John  rejoined,  "in  being  called 
a  crime  wave?"  And  seeing  the  sudden  tremor  of  mirth 
which  had  appeared  on  Roger's  face,  "Look  here,  Mr. 
Gale,"  he  went  eagerly  on.  "When  every  paper  in  the 
town  is  telling  these  fellers  where  they  belong — calling 
'em  crooks,  degenerates,  and  preaching  regular  sermons 
right  into  their  faces — why  shouldn't  we  help  'em  to  read 
the  stuff?  How  do  we  know  it  won't  do  'em  good?  It's 
church  to -'em,  that's  what  it  is — and  business  for  this 
office.  Nine  of  these  guys  have  sent  in  their  money  just 
in  the  last  week  or  so — " 

"Look  out,  my  boy,"  said  Roger,  with  slow  and  solemn 
emphasis.  "If  you  aren't  extremely  careful  you'll  find 
yourself  a  millionaire." 

"But  wait  a  minute,  Mr.  Gale — " 


166  HIS  FAMILY 

"Not  in  this  office,"  Roger  said.  "Send  'em  back, 
every  one  of  'em!  Understand?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  meek  reply.  And  with  a  little  sigh 
of  regret  John  turned  his  wits  to  other  kinds  and  condi 
tions  of  New  Yorkers  who  might  care  to  see  themselves 
in  print. 

As  they  worked  together  day  by  day,  Roger  had  occa 
sional  qualms  over  leaving  John  here  in  the  hot  town 
while  he  himself  went  up  to  the  mountains.  He  even 
thought  of  writing  to  Edith  that  he  was  planning  to  bring 
John,  too.  But  no,  she  wouldn't  like  it.  So  he  did  some 
thing  else  instead. 

"John,"  he  said,  one  morning,  "I'm  going  to  raise  your 
salary  to  a  hundred  dollars  a  month."  Instantly  from  the 
lad's  bright  eyes  there  shot  a  look  of  triumph. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Gale,"  was  his  hearty  response. 

"And  in  the  meantime,  Johnny,  I  want  you  to  take  a 
good  solid  month  off." 

"All  right,  sir,  thank  you,"  John  replied.  "But  I  guess 
it  won't  be  quite  a  month.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  needed  it." 

The  next  day  at  the  office  he  appeared  resplendent  in 
a  brand-new  suit  of  clothes,  a  summer  homespun  of 
light  gray  set  off  by  a  tie  of  flaming  red.  There  was  noth 
ing  soft  about  that  boy.  No,  Johnny  knew  how  to  look 
out  for  himself. 

And  Roger  went  up  to  the  farm. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GEOKGE  met  him  at  the  station,  as  he  had  done  a  year 
before.  But  at  once  Roger  noticed  a  difference.  In  the 
short  time  since  his  father's  death  certain  lines  had  come 
in  the  boy's  freckled  face,  and  they  gave  him  a  thoughtful, 
resolute  look.  George's  voice  was  changing.  One  moment 
it  was  high  and  boyish,  again  a  deep  and  manly  bass. 
As  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  horses  and  talked  about  his 
mother,  his  grandfather  from  time  to  time  threw  curious 
side  glances. 

"Oh,  yes,"  George  was  saying,  "mother's  all  right,  she's 
doing  fine.  It  was  pretty  bad  at  first,  though.  She 
wouldn't  let  me  sit  up  with  her  any — she  treated  me  like 
a  regular  kid.  But  any  fellow  with  any  sense  could  see 
how  she  was  feeling.  She'd  get  thinking  of  the  accident." 
George  stopped  short  and  clamped  his  jaws.  "You  know, 
my  dad  did  a  wonderful  thing,"  he  continued  presently. 
"Even  when  he  was  dying,  and  mother  and  I  were  there 
by  his  bed,  he  remembered  how  she'd  get  thinking  alone 
— all  about  the  accident.  You  see  he  knew  mother  pretty 
darned  well.  So  he  told  her  to  remember  that  he  was  the 
one  to  blame  for  it.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  he  said, 
they  would  have  gone  home  in  the  taxi.  That's  a  pretty 
good  point  to  keep  in  her  mind.  Don't  you  think  so?"  he 
inquired.  And  Roger  glanced  affectionately  into  the 
anxious  face  by  his  side. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  a  mighty  good  point.  Did  you 
think  of  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  George  replied.  "I've  told  it  to  her  a  good 
many  times — that  and  two  other  points  I  thought  of." 

167 


168  HIS  FAMILY 

"What  are  they,  son?"  asked  Roger. 

"First,"  the  boy  said  awkwardly,  "about  how  good 
she  was  to  him.  And  second,  that  she  let  him  buy  the 
new  car  before  he  died.  He  had  such  a  lot  of  fun  out  of 
that  car — " 

On  the  last  words  the  lad's  changing  voice  went  from  an 
impressive  bass  to  a  most  undignified  treble.  He  savagely 
scowled. 

"Those  three  points,"  he  continued,  in  more  careful 
measured  tones,  "were  about  all  I  could  think  of.  I  had 
to  use  'em  over  and  over — on  mother  when  things  got 
bad,  I  mean."  A  flush  of  embarrassment  came  on  hi« 
face.  "And  hold  her  and  kiss  her,"  he  muttered.  Then 
he  whipped  his  horses.  "We've  had  some  pretty  bad 
times  this  month,"  he  continued,  loud  and  manfully. 
"You  see,  mother  isn't  so  young  as  she  was.  She's  well  on 
in  her  thirties."  A  glimmer  of  amusement  appeared  in 
Roger's  heavy  eyes.  "But  she  don't  cry  often  any  more, 
and  with  you  here  we'll  pull  her  through."  He  shot  a 
quick  look  at  his  grandfather.  "Gee,  but  I'm  glad  you're 
here!"  he  said. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Roger.  And  with  a  little  pressure  of 
his  hand  on  George's  shoulder,  "I  guess  you've  had  about 
your  share.  Now  tell  me  the  news.  How  are  things  on 
the  farm?" 

With  a  breath  of  evident  relief,  the  lad  launched  into 
the  animal  world.  And  soon  he  was  talking  eagerly. 

In  the  next  few  days  with  his  daughter  Roger  found  that 
George  was  right.  She  had  been  through  the  worst  of  it. 
But  she  still  had  her  reactions,  her  spells  of  emptiness, 
bleak  despair,  her  moods  of  fierce  rebellion  or  of  sudden 
self-reproach  for  not  having  given  Bruce  more  while  he 
lived.  And  in  such  hours  her  father  tried  to  comfort  her 
with  poor  success. 

"Remember,  child,  I'm  with  you,  and  I  know  how  it 


HIS  FAMILY  169 

feels,"  he  said.  "I  went  through  it  all  myself.  When 
your  mother  died — " 

"But  mother  was  so  much  older!"  He  looked  at  his 
daughter  compassionately. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Thirty-six."  " 

"Your  mother  was  thirty-nine,"  he  replied.  And  at 
that  Edith  turned  and  stared  at  him,  bewildered,  shocked, 
brought  face  to  face  with  a  new  and  momentous  fact  in 
her  life. 

"Mother  only  my  age  when  she  died?" 

"Yes,"  said  Roger  gently,  "only  three  years  older." 
With  a  twinge  of  pain  he  noticed  two  quite  visible  streaks 
of  gray  in  his  daughter's  soft  blonde  hair.  "And  she  felt 
as  you  do  now — as  though  she  were  just  starting  out. 
And  I  felt  the  same  way,  my  dear.  If  I'm  not  mistaken, 
everyone  does.  You  still  feel  young — but  the  new  genera 
tion  is  already  growing  up — and  you  can  feel  yourself 
being  pushed  on.  And  it  is  hard — it  is  very  hard."  Clum 
sily  he  took  her  hand.  "Don't  let  yourself  drop  out," 
he  said.  "Be  as  your  mother  would  have  been  if  she  had 
been  left  instead  of  me.  Go  straight  on  with  your  chil 
dren." 

To  this  note  he  could  feel  her  respond.  And  at  first,  as 
he  felt  what  a  fight  she  was  making,  Roger  glorified  her 
pluck.  As  he  watched  her  with  her  children  at  table, 
smiling  at  their  talk  with  an  evident  effort  to  enter  in,  and 
again  with  her  baby  snug  in  her  lap  while  she  read  bed 
time  stories  to  Bob  and  little  Tad  at  her  side,  he  kept 
noticing  the  resemblance  between  his  daughter  and  his 
wife.  How  close  were  these  two  members  of  his  family 
drawing  together  now,  one  of  them  living,  the  other  dead. 

But  later,  as  the  weeks  wore  on,  she  began  to  plan  for 
her  children.  She  planned  precisely  how  to  fit  them  all 
into  the  house  in  town,  she  planned  the  hours  for  their 
meals,  for  their  going  alone  or  with  the  nurse  or  a  maid 


170  HIS  FAMILY 

to  their  different  private  schools,  to  music  lessons,  to 
dancing  school  and  uptown  to  the  park  to  play.  She 
planned  their  fall  clothes  and  she  planned  their  friends. 
And  there  came  to  her  father  occasional  moods  of  anxiety. 
He  remembered  Bruce's  grim  remarks  about  those  "sim 
ple"  schools  and  clothes,  the  kind  that  always  cost  the 
most.  And  he  began  to  realize  what  Bruce's  existence 
must  have  been.  For  scarcely  ever  in  their  talks  did 
Edith  speak  of  anything  outside  of  her  family.  Night 
after  night,  with  a  tensity  born  of  her  struggle  with  her 
grief,  she  talked  about  her  children.  And  Roger  was  in 
Bruce's  place,  he  was  the  one  she  planned  with.  At  mo 
ments  with  a  vague  dismay  he  glimpsed  the  life  ahead  in 
his  home. 

George  was  hard  at  work  each  day  down  by  the  broken 
dam  at  the  mill.  He  had  an  idea  he  could  patch  it  up,  put 
the  old  water-wheel  back  into  place  and  make  it  run  a 
dynamo,  by  which  he  could  light  the  house  and  barn  and 
run  the  machines  in  the  dairy.  In  his  new  role  as  the  man 
of  his  family,  George  was  planning  out  his  career.  He  was 
wrestling  with  a  book  entitled  "Our  New  Mother  Earth" 
and  a  journal  called  "The  Modern  Farm."  And  to  Roger 
he  confided  that  he  meant  to  be  a  farmer.  He  wanted  to 
go  in  the  autumn  to  the  State  Agricultural  College.  But 
when  one  day,  very  cautiously,  Roger  spoke  to  Edith  of 
this,  with  a  hard  and  jealous  smile  which  quite  transformed 
her  features,  she  said, 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  that,  father  dear.  It's  just  a 
stage  he's  going  through.  And  it's  the  same  way 
with  Elizabeth,  too,  and  her  crazy  idea  of  becoming 
a  doctor.  She  took  that  from  Allan  Baird,  and  George 
took  his  from  Deborah!  They'll  get  over  it  soon 
enough — " 

"They  won't  get  over  it!"  Roger  cried.  "Their 
dreams  are  parts  of  something  new!  Something  I'm  quite 
vague  about — but  some  of  it  has  come  to  stay!  You're 


HIS  FAMILY  171 

losing  all  your  chances— just  as  I  did  years  ago!  You'll 
never  know  your  children!" 

But  he  uttered  this  cry  to  himself  alone.  Outwardly 
he  only  frowned.  And  Edith  had  gone  on  to  say, 

"I  do  hope  that  Deborah  won't  come  up  this  summer. 
She's  been  very  good  and  kind,  of  course,  and  if  she  comes 
she'll  be  doing  it  entirely  on  my  account.  But  I  don't 
want  her  here — I  want  her  to  marry,  the  sooner  the  better, 
and  come  to  her  senses — be  happy,  I  mean.  And  I  wish 
you  would  tell  her  so." 

Within  a  few  days  after  this  Deborah  wrote  to  her 
father  that  she  was  coming  the  next  week.  He  said  noth 
ing  to  Edith  about  it  at  first,  he  had  William  saddled  and 
went  for  a  ride  to  try  to  determine  what  he  should  do. 
But  it  was  a  ticklish  business.  For  women  were  queer 
and'  touchy,  and  once  more  he  felt  the  working  of  those 
uncanny  family  ties. 

"Deborah,"  he  reflected,  "is  coming  up  here  because 
she  feels  it's  selfish  of  her  to  stay  away.  If  she  marries 
at  once,  as  she  told  me  herself,  she  thinks  Edith  will 
be  hurt.  Edith  won't  be  hurt — and  if  Deborah  comes, 
there'll  be  trouble  every  minute  she  stays.  But  can  I 
tell  her  so?  Not  at  all.  I  can't  say,  l  You're  not 
wanted  here.'  If  I  do,  she'll  b&  hurt.  Oh  Lord,  these 
girls!  And  Deborah  knows  very  well  that  if  she  does 
get  married  this  month,  with  Laura  abroad  and  Edith 
up  here  and  only  me  at  the  wedding,  Edith  will  smile  to 
herself  and  say,  'Now  isn't  that  just  like  Deborah?' ' 

As  Roger  slowly  rode  along  a  steep  and  winding  moun 
tain  road,  gloomily  he  reflected  to  what  petty  little  troubles 
a  family  of  women  could  descend,  so  soon  after  death  it 
self.  And  he  lifted  his  eyes  up  to  the  hills  and  decided  to 
leave  this  matter  alone.  If  women  would  be  women,  let 
them  settle  their  own  affairs.  Deborah  was  due  to  arrive 
on  the  following  Friday  evening.  All  right,  let  her  come, 
he  thought.  She  would  soon  see  she  was  in  the  way,  and 


172  HIS  FAMILY 

then  in  a  little  affectionate  talk  he  would  suggest  that  she 
marry  right  off  and  have  a  decent  honeymoon  before  the 
school  year  opened. 

So  he  dismissed  it  from  his  mind.  And  as  he  listened 
in  the  dusk  to  the  numberless  murmuring  voices  of  living 
creatures  large  and  small  which  rose  out  of  the  valley,  and 
as  from  high  above  him  the  serenity  of  the  mountains  there 
towering  over  thousands  of  years  stole  into  his  spirit, 
Roger  had  a  large  quieting  sense  of  something  high  and 
powerful  looking  down  upon  the  earth,  a  sense  of  all 
humanity  honeycombed  with  millions  upon  millions  of 
small  sorrows,  absorbing  joys  and  hopes  and  fears,  and  in 
spite  of  them  all  the  Great  Life  sweeping  on,  with  no 
Great  Death  to  check  its  course,  no  immense  catastrophe, 
all  these  little  troubles  like  mere  tiny  specks  of  foam  upon 
the  surface  of  the  tide. 

Deborah's  visit,  the  following  week,  was  as  he  had  ex 
pected.  Within  an  hour  after  her  coming  he  could  feel 
the  tension  grow.  Deborah  herself  was  tense,  both  from 
the  work  she  had  left  in  New  York  where  she  was  soon  to 
have  five  schools,  and  from  the  thought  of  her  marriage, 
only  a  few  weeks  ahead.  She  said  nothing  about  it,  how 
ever,  until  as  a  sisterly  duty  Edith  tried  to  draw  her  out  by 
showing  an  interest  in  her  plans.  But  the  cloud  of  Bruce's 
death  was  there,  and  Deborah  shunned  the  topic.  She 
tried  to  talk  of  the  children  instead.  But  Edith  at  once 
was  on  the  defensive,  vigilant  for  trouble,  and  as  she 
unfolded  her  winter  plans  she  grew  distinctly  brief  and 
curt. 

"If  Deborah  doesn't  see  it  now,  she's  a  fool,"  her  father 
told  himself.  "I'll  just  wait  a  few  days  more,  and  then 
we'll  have  that  little  talk." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  had  rained  so  hard  for  the  past  two  days  that  no  one 
had  gone  to  the  village,  which  was  nearly  three  miles  from 
the  farm.  But  when  the  storm  was  over  at  last,  George 
and  Elizabeth  tramped  down  and  came  back  at  dusk  with 
a  bag  full  of  mail.  Their  clothes  were  mud-bespattered 
and  they  hurried  upstairs  to  change  before  supper,  while 
Roger  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  spread  open  his  New 
York  paper.  It  was  July  30,  1914. 

From  a  habit  grown  out  of  thirty  odd  years  of  business 
life,  Roger  read  his  paper  in  a  fashion  of  his  own.  By 
instinct  his  eye  swept  the  page  for  news  dealing  with 
individual  men,  for  it  was  upon  people's  names  in  print 
that  he  had  made  his  living.  And  so  when  he  looked  at 
this  strange  front  page  it  gave  him  a  swift  twinge  of 
alarm.  For  the  news  was  not  of  men  but  of  nations. 
Austria  was  massing  her  troops  along  the  Serbian  frontier, 
and  Germany,  Italy,  Russia,  France  and  even  England, 
all  were  in  a  turmoil,  with  panics  in  their  capitals,  money 
markets  going  wild. 

Edith  came  down,  in  her  neat  black  dress  with  its 
narrow  white  collar,  ready  for  supper.  She  glanced  at 
her  father. 

"Why,   what's  the  matter?" 

"Look  at  this."    And  he  tossed  her  a  paper. 

"Oh-h-h,"  she  murmured  softly.  "Oh,  how  frightful 
that  would  be."  And  she  read  on  with  lips  compressed. 
But  soon  there  came  from  a  room  upstairs  the  sudden 
cry  of  one  of  her  children,  followed  by  a  shrill  wail  of 
distress.  And  dropping  the  paper,  she  hurried  away. 

Roger  continued  his  reading. 

173 


174  HIS  FAMILY 

Deborah  came.  She  saw  the  paper  Edith  had  dropped, 
picked  it  up  and  sat  down  to  read,  and  there  were  a  few 
moments  of  absolute  silence.  Then  Roger  heard  a  quiver 
ing  breath,  and  glancing  up  he  saw  Deborah's  eyes,  intent 
and  startled,  moving  down  the  columns  of  print  in  a  swift, 
uncomprehending  way. 

"  Pretty  serious  business,"  he  growled. 

"It  can't  happen!"  she  exclaimed. 

And  they  resumed  their  reading. 

In  the  next  three  days,  as  they  read  the  news,  they  felt 
war  like  a  whirlpool  sucking  in  all  their  powers  to  think 
or  feel,  felt  their  own  small  personal  plans  whirled  about 
like  leaves  in  a  storm.  And  while  their  minds — at  first 
dazed  and  stunned  by  the  thought  of  such  appalling  arm 
ies,  battles,  death  and  desolation — slowly  cleared  and  they 
strove  to  think,  and  Roger  thought  of  business  shivered 
to  atoms  in  every  land,  and  Deborah  thought  of  schools 
by  thousands  all  over  Europe  closing  down,  in  cities  and 
in  villages,  in  valleys  and  on  mountain  sides,  of  homes 
in  panic  everywhere,  of  all  ideals  of  brotherhood  shaken, 
bending,  tottering — war  broke  out  in  Europe. 

"What  is  this  going  to  mean  to  me?" 

Millions  of  people  were  asking  that.  And  so  did  Roger 
and  Deborah.  The  same  night  they  left  for  New  York, 
while  Edith  with  a  sigh  of  relief  settled  back  into  her 
family. 

The  next  morning  at  his  office  Roger  found  John  waiting 
with  misery  stamped  on  his  face.  John  had  paid  small 
heed  to  war.  Barely  stopping  for  sleep  in  the  last  two 
days  he  had  gone  through  scores  and  hundreds  of  papers, 
angrily  skipping  all  those  names  of  kings  and  emperors  and 
czars,  and  searching  instead  for  American  names,  names 
of  patrons — business!  Gone!  Each  hour  he  had  been 
opening  mail  and  piling  up  letters  cancelling  contracts, 
ordering  service  discontinued. 


HIS  FAMILY  175 

Roger  sat  down  at  his  desk.  As  he  worked  and  figured 
and  dictated  letters,  glancing  into  the  outer  rooms  he  saw 
the  long  rows  of  girls  at  tables  obviously  trying  to  pretend 
that  there  was  work  for  them  to  do.  He  felt  them  anx 
iously  watching  him — as  in  other  offices  everywhere  mil 
lions  of  other  employees  kept  furtively  glancing  at  their 
chiefs. 

"War,"  he  thought.  " Shall  I  close  down? "  He  shrank 
from  what  it  would  mean  to  those  girls.  "Business  will 
pick  up  again  soon.  A  few  days — weeks — that's  all  I 
need." 

And  he  went  to  his  bank.  No  credit  there.  He  tried 
other  sources,  all  he  could  think  of,  racking  his  brains  as 
he  went 'about  town,  but  still  he  could  not  raise  a  loan. 
Finally  he  went  to  the  firm  which  had  once  held  a  mort 
gage  on  his  house.  The  chief  partner  had  been  close  to 
Bruce,  an  old  college  friend.  And  when  even  this  friend 
refused  him  aid,  "It's  a  question  of  Bruce's  children," 
Roger  muttered,  reddening.  He  felt  like  a  beggar,  but 
he  was  getting  desperate.  The  younger  man  had  looked 
away  and  was  nervously  tapping  his  desk  with  his 
pen. 

"Bad  as  that,  eh,"  he  answered.  "Then  I  guess  it's 
got  to  be  done."  He  looked  anxiously  up  at  Roger,  who 
just  at  that  moment  appeared  very  old.  "Don't  worry, 
Mr.  Gale,"  he  said.  "Somehow  or  other  we'll  carry  you 
through." 

"Thank  you,  sir."  Roger  rose  heavily,  feeling  weak, 
and  took  his  departure.  "This  is  war,"  he  told  himself, 
"and  I've  got  to  look  after  my  own." 

But  he  had  a  sensation  almost  of  guilt,  as  upon  his  re 
turn  to  his  office  he  saw  those  suddenly  watchful  faces.  He 
walked  past  them  and  went  into  his  room,  and  again 
he  searched  for  ways  and  means.  He  tried  to  see  his 
business  as  it  would  be  that  autumn,  to  see  the  city,  the 
nation,  the  world  as  it  would  be  in  the  months  ahead. 


176  HIS  FAMILY 

Repeatedly  he  fought  off  his  fears.    But  slowly  and  in 
exorably  the  sense  of  his  helplessness  grew  clear. 
"No,  I  must  shut  down,"  he  thought. 

On  his  way  home  that  evening,  in  a  crush  at  a  turbulent 
corner  he  saw  a  big  truck  jam  into  a  taxi,  and  with  a  throb 
of  rebellion  he  thought  of  his  son-in-law  who  was  dead. 
Just  the  turn  of  a  hair  and  Bruce  might  have  lived  and 
been  here  to  look  after  the  children !  At  the  prospect  of  the 
crisis,  the  strain  he  saw  before  him,  Roger  again  felt  weak 
and  old.  He  shook  off  his  dread  and  strode  angrily  on. 

In  his  house,  the  rooms  downstairs  were  still  dismantled 
for  the  summer.  There  was  emptiness  and  silence  but  no 
serenity  in  them  now,  only  the  quiet  before  the  storm 
which  he  could  feel  from  far  and  near  was  gathering  about 
his  home.  He  heard  Deborah  on  the  floor  above,  and  went 
up  and  found  her  making  his  bed,  for  the  chambermaid 
had  not  yet  come.  Her  voice  was  a  little  unnatural. 

"It  has  been  a  hard  day,  hasn't  it.  I've  got  your  bath 
room  ready,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  want  a  nice  cool  bath? 
Supper  will  be  ready  soon." 

When,  a  half  hour  later,  somewhat  refreshed,  Roger 
came  down  to  the  table,  he  noticed  it  was  set  for 
two. 

"Isn't  Allan  coming?"  he  asked.  Her  mobile  features 
tightened. 

"Not  till  later,"  she  replied. 

They  talked  little  and  the  meal  was  short.  But  after 
wards,  on  the  wooden  porch,  Deborah  turned  to  her  father, 

"Now  tell  me  about  your  office,"  she  said. 

"There's  not  enough  business  to  pay  the  rent." 

"That  won't  last—" 

"I'm  not  so  sure." 

"I  am,"  she  said  determinedly.  Her  father  slowly 
turned  his  head. 

"Are  you,  with  this  war?"  he  asked.    Her  eyes  met  his 


HIS  FAMILY  177 

and  moved  away  in  a  baffled,  searching  manner.  "She 
has  troubles  of  her  own,"  he  thought. 

"How  much  can  we  run  the  house  on,  Deborah?"  he 
asked  her.  At  first  she  did  not  answer.  "What  was  it — 
about  six  thousand  last  year?" 

"I  think  so/'  she  said  restlessly.  "We  can  cut  down  on 
that,  of  course — " 

"With  Edith  and  the  children  here?" 

"Edith  will  have  to  manage  it!  There  are  others  to 
be  thought  of!" 

"The  children  in  your  schools,  you  mean." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  frown.  "It  will  be  a  bad 
year  for  the  tenements.  But  please  go  on  and  tell  me. 
What  have  you  thought  of  doing?" 

"Mortgage  the  house  again,"  he  replied.  "It  hasn't 
been  easy,  for  money  is  tight,  but  I  think  I'll  be  able  to 
get  enough  to  just  about  carry  us  through  the  year.  At 
home,  I  mean,"  he  added. 

"And  the  office?" 

"  Shut  down,"  he  said.    She  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"You  won't  do  that!" 

"What  else  can  I  do?" 

"Turn  all  those  girls  away?"  she  cried.  At  her  tone  his 
look  grew  troubled. 

"How  can  I  help  myself,  Deborah?  If  I  kept  open  it 
would  cost  me  over  five  hundred  a  week  to  run.  Have  I 
five  hundred  dollars  a  week  to  lose?" 

"But  I  tell  you  it  won't  last!"  she  cried,  and  again  the 
baffled,  driven  expression  swept  over  her  expressive  face. 
"Can't  you  see  this  is  only  a  panic — and  keep  going  some 
how?  Can't  you  see  what  it  means  to  the  tenements? 
Hundreds  of  thousands  are  out  of  work!  They're  being 
turned  off  every  day,  every  hour — employers  all  over  are 
losing  their  heads!  And  City  Hall  is  as  mad  as  the  rest! 
They've  decided  already  down  there  to  retrench!" 

He  turned  with  a  quick  jerk  of  his  head: 


178  HIS  FAMILY 

"Are  they  cutting  you  down?"    She  set  her  teeth: 

"Yes,  they  are.  But  the  work  in  my  schools  is  going 
on — every  bit  of  it  is — for  every  child!  I'm  going  to  find 
a  way,"  she  said.  And  he  felt  a  thrill  of  compassion. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  he  muttered. 

"You  needn't  be."  She  paused  a  moment,  smiled  and 
went  on  in  a  quieter  voice:  "Don't  think  I'm  blind — 
I'm  sensible — I  see  you  can't  lose  five  hundred  a  week. 
But  why  not  try  what  other  employers,  quite  a  few,  have 
decided  to  do?  Call  your  people  together,  explain  how  it 
is,  and  ask  them  to  choose  a  committee  to  help  you  find 
which  ones  need  jobs  the  most.  Keep  all  you  can — on 
part  time,  of  course — but  at  least  pay  them  something, 
carry  them  through.  You'll  lose  money  by  it,  I  haven't 
a  doubt.  But  you've  already  found  you  can  mortgage  the 
house,  and  remember  besides  that  I  shall  be  here.  I'm  not 
going  to  marry  now" — her  father  looked  at  her  quickly 
— "and of  course  I'll  expect  to  do  my  share  toward  meeting 
the  expenses.  Moreover,  I  know  we  can  cut  down." 

"Retrench,"  said  Roger  grimly.  " Turn  off  the  servants 
instead  of  the  clerks." 

"No,  only  one  of  them,  Martha  upstairs — and  she  is 
to  be  married.  We'll  keep  the  cook  and  the  waitress. 
Edith  will  have  to  give  up  her  nurse — and  it  will  be  hard 
on  her,  of  course — but  she'll  have  to  realize  this  is  war," 
Deborah  said  sharply.  "Besides,"  she  urged,  "it's  not 
going  to  last.  Business  everywhere  will  pick  up — in  a  few 
weeks  or  months  at  most.  The  war  can't  go  on — it's  too 
horribly  big! "  She  broke  off  and  anxiously  looked  at  him. 
Her  father  was  still  frowning. 

"I'm  asking  you  to  risk  a  good  deal,"  she  continued,  her 
voice  intense  and  low.  "But  somehow,  dearie,  I  always 
feel  that  this  old  house  of  ours  is  strong.  It  can  stand  a 
good  deal.  We  can  all  of  us  stand  so  much,  as  soon  as  we 
know  we  have  to."  The  lines  of  her  wide  sensitive  mouth 
tightened  firmly  once  again.  "It's  all  so  vague  and  un- 


HIS  FAMILY  179 

certain,  I  know.  But  one  thing  at  least  is  sure.  This  is  no 
time  for  people  with  money — no  matter  how  little — to 
shut  themselves  up  in  their  own  little  houses  and  let  the 
rest  starve  or  beg  or  steal.  This  is  the  time  to  do  our 
share." 

And  she  waited.    But  he  made  no  reply. 

"  Every  nation  at  war  is  doing  it,  dad — become  like  one 
big  family — with  everyone  helping,  doing  his  share.  Must 
a  nation  be  at  war  to  do  that?  Can't  we  be  brothers 
without  the  guns?  Can't  you  see  that  we're  all  of  us 
stunned,  and  trying  to  see  what  war  will  mean  to  all  the 
children  in  the  world?  And  while  we're  groping,  groping, 
can't  we  give  each  other  a  hand?" 

Still  he  sat  motionless  there  in  the  dark.  At  last  he 
stirred  heavily  in  his  chair. 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  told  her.  "  At  least  I'll  think 
it  over — and  try  to  work  out  something  along  the  lines  you 
spoke  of." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  Then  his  daughter  turned 
to  him  with  a  little  deprecating  smile. 

"You'll  forgive  my — preaching  to  you,  dad?" 

"No    preaching,"    he    said    gruffly.      "Just    ordinary 


A  little  later  Allan  came  in,  and  Roger  soon  left  them  and 
went  to  bed.  Alone  with  Baird  she  was  silent  a  moment, 

"Well?  Have  you  thought  it  over?"  she  asked. 
"Wasn't  I  right  in  what  I  said?"  At  the  anxious  ring 
in  her  low  clear  voice,  leaning  over  he  took  her  hand;  and 
he  felt  it  hot  and  trembling  as  it  quickly  closed  on  his. 
He  stroked  it  slowly,  soothingly.  In  the  semi-darkness 
he  seemed  doubly  tall  and  powerful. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  were  right,"  he  said. 

"Spring  at  the  latest — I'll  marry  you  then — " 

Her  eyes  were  intently  fixed  on  his. 

"Come  here!"  she  whispered  sharply,  and  Baird  bent 


180  HIS  FAMILY 

over  and  held  her  tight.  "Tighter!"  she  whispered. 
''Tighter!  .  .  .  There!  .  .  .  I  said,  spring  at  the  latest! 
I  can't  lose  you,  Allan — now — " 

She  suddenly  quivered  as  though  from  fatigue. 

"I'm  going  to  watch  you  close  down  there,"  he  said  in 
a  moment,  huskily. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ROGER  saw  little  of  Deborah  in  the  weeks  that  followed. 
She  was  gathering  her  forces  for  the  long  struggle  she  saw 
ahead.  And  his  own  worries  filled  his  mind.  On  his  house 
he  succeeded  in  borrowing  five  thousand  dollars  at  ten 
per  cent,  and  in  his  office  he  worked  out  a  scheme  along 
the  lines  of  Deborah's  plan.  At  first  it  was  only  a  struggle 
to  save  the  remnants  of  what  was  left.  Later  the  tide 
began  to  turn,  new  business  came  into  the  office  again. 
But  only  a  little,  and  then  it  stopped.  Hard  times  were 
here  for  the  winter. 

Soon  Edith  would  come  with  the  children.  He  won 
dered  how  sensible  she  would  be.  It  was  going  to  mean  a 
daily  fight  to  make  ends  meet,  he  told  himself,  and  guiltily 
he  decided  not  to  let  his  daughter  know  how  matters  stood 
in  his  office.  Take  care  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  and 
then  be  generous  as  you  please — that  had  always  been  his 
way.  And  now  Deborah  had  upset  it  by  her  emotional 
appeal.  "How  dramatic  she  is  at  times!"  he  reflected 
in  annoyance.  "Just  lets  herself  out  and  enjoys  herself!" 
He  grew  angry  at  her  interference,  and  more  than  once 
he  resolved  to  shut  down.  But  back  in  the  office,  before 
those  watchful  faces,  still  again  he  would  put  it  off. 

"Wait  a  little.    We'll  see,"  he  thought. 

In  the  meantime,  in  this  interplay,  these  shifting  lights 
and  shadows  which  played  upon  the  history  of  the  life  of 
Roger's  home,  there  came  to  him  a  diversion  from  an  un 
expected  source.  Laura  and  Harold  returned  from  abroad. 
Soon  after  landing  they  came  to  the  house,  and  talking 
fast  and  eagerly  they  told  how  they  had  eluded  the  war. 

181 


182  HIS  FAMILY 

For  them  it  had  been  a  glorious  game.  In  Venice  in 
early  August,  Harold  had  seen  a  chance  for  a  big  stroke 
of  business.  He  had  a  friend  who  lived  in  Rome,  an  Ital 
ian  close  to  his  government.  At  once  they  had  joined 
forces,  worked  day  and  night,  pulled  wires,  used  money 
judiciously  here  and  there,  and  so  had  secured  large 
orders  for  munitions  from  the  U.  S.  A.  Then  to  get  back 
to  God's  country!  There  came  the  hitch,  they  were  too 
late.  Naples,  Genoa,  and  Milan,  all  were  filled  with  tourist 
mobs.  They  took  a  train  for  Paris,  and  reaching  the  city 
just  a  week  before  the  end  of  the  German  drive  they  found 
it  worse  than  Italy.  But  there  Hal  had  a  special  pull — 
and  by  the  use  of  those  wits  of  his,  not  to  be  downed  by 
refusals,  he  got  passage  at  last  for  Laura,  himself  and  his 
new  Italian  partner.  At  midnight,  making  their  way 
across  the  panic-stricken  city,  and  at  the  station  struggling 
through  a  wild  and  half  crazed  multitude  of  men  and 
women  and  children,  they  boarded  a  train  and  went  rush 
ing  westward  right  along  the  edge  of  the  storm.  To  the 
north  the  Germans  were  so  close  that  Laura  was  sure  she 
could  hear  the  big  guns.  The  train  kept  stopping  to  take  on 
troops.  At  dawn  some  twenty  wounded  men  came  crowd 
ing  into  their  very  <?ar,  bloody  and  dirty,  pale  and  worn, 
but  gaily  smiling  at  the  pain,  and  saying,  "Qa  n'fait  rien, 
madame."  Later  Harold  opened  his  flask  for  some  splen 
did  Breton  soldier  boys  just  going  into  action.  And  they 
stood  up  with  flashing  eyes  and  shouted  out  the  Marseil 
laise,  while  Laura  shivered  and  thrilled  with  delight. 

"I  nearly  kissed  them  all!"  she  cried. 

Roger  greatly  enjoyed  the  evening.  He  had  heard  so 
much  of  the  horrors  of  war.  Here  was  something  different, 
something  bright  and  vibrant  with  youth  and  adventure! 
Here  at  last  was  the  thrill  of  war,  the  part  he  had  always 
read  about! 

He  glanced  now  and  then  at  Deborah  and  was  annoyed 
by  what  he  saw.  For  although  she  said  nothing  and  forced 


HIS  FAMILY  183 

a  smile,  he  could  easily  tell  by  the  set  of  her  lips  that 
Deborah  thoroughly  disapproved.  All  right,  that  was  her 
way,  he  thought.  But  this  was  Laura's  way,  shedding 
the  gloom  and  the  tragic  side  as  a  duck  will  shed  water 
off  its  back,  a  duck  with  bright  new  plumage  fresh  from 
the  shops  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  taking  some  pleasure 
out  of  life !  What  an  ardent  gleaming  beauty  she  was,  he 
thought  as  he  watched  this  daughter  of  his.  And  under 
neath  his  enjoyment,  too,  though  Roger  would  not  have 
admitted  it,  was  a  sense  of  relief  in  the  news  that  at  least 
one  man  in  the  family  was  growing  rich  instead  of  poor. 
Already  Hal  and  his  partner — &  fascinating  creature 
according  to  Laura's  description — were  fast  equipping 
shrapnel  mills.  Plainly  they  expected  a  tremendous  rush 
of  business.  And  no  matter  how  you  felt  about  war,  the 
word  "  profits"  at  least  had  a  pleasant  sound. 

"How  has  the  war  hit  you,  sir?"  Harold  asked  his 
father-in-law. 

"Oh,  so-so,  I'll  get  on,  my  boy,"  was  Roger's  quiet 
answer.  For  Harold  was  not  quite  the  kind  he  would 
ever  like  to  ask  for  aid.  Still,  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  he  would  have  someone  to  turn  to. 

Long  after  they  had  left  the  house,  he  kept  thinking 
over  all  they  had  said.  What  an  amazing  time  they  had 
had,  the  two  young  scalawags. 

Deborah  was  still  in  the  room.  As  she  sat  working  at 
her  desk,  her  back  was  turned  and  she  did  not  speak.  But 
little  by  little  her  father's  mood  changed.  Of  course  she 
was  right,  he  admitted.  For  now  they  were  gone,  the 
spell  they  had  cast  was  losing  a  part  of  its  glamor.  Yes, 
their  talk  had  been  pretty  raw.  Sheer  unthinking  selfish 
ness,  a  bold  rush  for  plunder  and  a  dash  to  get  away, 
trampling  over  people  half  crazed,  women  and  children 
in  panicky  crowds,  and  leaving  behind  them,  so  to  speak, 
Laura's  joyous  rippling  laugh  over  their  own  success 


184  HIS  FAMILY 

in  the  game.  Yes,  there  was  no  denying  the  fact  that 
Hal  was  rushing  headlong  into  a  savage  dangerous  game, 
a  scramble  and  a  gamble,  with  adventurers  from  all  over 
Europe  gathering  here  and  making  a  little  world  of  their 
own.  He  would  work  and  live  at  a  feverish  pitch,  and 
Laura  would  go  it  as  hard  as  he.  Roger  thought  he  could 
see  their  winter  ahead.  How  they  would  pile  up  money 
and  spend! 

All  at  once,  as  though  some  figure  silent  and  invisible 
were  standing  close  beside  him,  from  far  back  in  his  child 
hood  a  memory  flashed  into  his  mind  of  a  keen  and  clear 
October  night,  when  Roger,  a  little  shaver  of  nine,  had 
stood  with  his  mother  in  front  of  the  farmhouse  and  lis 
tened  to  the  faint  sharp  roll  of  a  single  drum  far  down  in 
the  valley.  And  his  mother's  grip  had  hurt  his  hand,  and 
a  lump  had  risen  in  his  throat — as  Dan,  his  oldest  brother, 
had  marched  away  with  his  company  of  New  Hampshire 
mountain  boys.  "  We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three 
hundred  thousand  more."  Dan  had  been  killed  at  Shiloh. 

And  it  must  be  like  that  now  in  France.  No,  he  did  not 
like  the  look  which  he  had  seen  on  Laura's  face  as  she 
had  talked  about  the  war  and  the  fat  profits  to  be  made. 
Was  this  all  we  Yankees  had  to  say  to  the  people  over  in 
Europe? 

Frowning  and  glancing  at  Deborah's  back,  he  saw  that 
she  was  tired.  It  was  nearly  midnight,  but  still  she  kept 
working  doggedly  on,  moving  her  shoulder  muscles  at 
times  as  though  to  shake  off  aches  and  pains,  then  bending 
again  to  her  labor,  her  fight  against  such  heavy  odds  in 
the  winter  just  beginning  for  those  children  in  the  tene 
ments.  He  recalled  a  fragment  of  the  appeal  she  had  made 
to  him  only  the  month  before: 

"Can't  you  see  that  we're  all  of  us  stunned,  and  trying 
to  see  what  war  will  mean  to  all  the  children  in  the  world? 
And  while  we're  groping,  groping,  can't  we  give  each  other 
a  hand?" 


HIS  FAMILY  185 

And  as  he  looked  at  his  daughter,  she  made  him  think 
of  her  grandmother,  as  she  had  so  often  done  before.  For 
Deborah,  too,  was  a  pioneer.  She,  too,  had  lived  in  the 
wilderness.  Clearing  roads  through  jungles?  Yes.  And 
freeing  slaves  of  ignorance  and  building  a  nation  of  new 
men.  And  now  she  was  doggedly  fighting  to  save  what  she 
had  builded — not  from  the  raids  of  the  Indians  but  from 
the  ravages  of  this  war  which  was  sweeping  civilization 
aside.  With  her  school  behind  her,  so  to  speak,  she  stood 
facing  this  great  enemy  with  stern  and  angry,  steady  eyes. 
Her  pioneer  grandmother  come  to  life. 

So,  with  the  deep  craving  which  was  a  part  of  his  inmost 
self,  Roger  tried  to  bind  together  what  was  old  and  what 
was  new.  But  his  thoughts  grew  vague  and  drifting.  He 
realized  how  weary  he  was,  and  said  good-night  and  went 
to  bed.  There,  just  before  he  fell  asleep,  again  he  had  a 
feeling  of  relief  at  the  knowledge  that  one  at  least  in  the 
family  was  to  be  rich  this  year.  With  a  guilty  sensation 
he  shook  off  the  thought,  and  within  a  few  moments  after 
that  his  harsh  regular  breathing  was  heard  in  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IT  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  Edith  arrived  with 
her  children. 

Roger  met  her  at  the  train  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  even 
ing.  The  fast  mountain  express  of  the  summer  had  been 
taken  off  some  time  before,  so  Edith  had  had  to  be  up  at 
dawn  and  to  change  cars  several  times  on  the  trip.  "  She'll 
be  worn  out,"  he  thought  as  he  waited.  The  train  was 
late.  As  he  walked  about  the  new  station,  that  monstrous 
sparkling  hive  of  travel  with  its  huge  halls  and  passage 
ways,  its  little  village  of  shops  underground  and  its 
bewildering  levels  for  trains,  he  remembered  the  interest 
Bruce  had  shown  in  watching  this  immense  puzzle  worked 
out,  the  day  and  night  labor  year  after  year  without  the 
stopping  of  a  train,  this  mighty  symbol  of  the  times,  of  all 
the  glorious  power  and  speed  in  an  age  that  had  been  as 
the  breath  to  his  nostrils.  How  Bruce  had  loved  the  city! 
As  Roger  paced  slowly  back  and  forth  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  there  came  over  his  heavy  visage  a 
look  of  affection  and  regret  which  made  even  New  Yorkers 
glance  at  him  as  they  went  nervously  bustling  by.  From 
time  to  time  he  smiled  to  himself.  "The  Catskills  will  be 
Central  Park!  All  this  city  needs  is  speed!  " 

But  suddenly  he  remembered  that  Bruce  had  always 
been  here  before  to  meet  his  wife  and  children,  and  that 
Edith  on  her  approaching  train  must  be  dreading  her  ar 
rival.  And  when  at  last  the  train  rolled  in,  and  he  spied 
her  shapely  little  head  in  the  on-coming  throng  of  travel 
lers,  Roger  saw  by  her  set  steady  smile  and  the  strained  ex 
pression  on  her  face  that  he  had  guessed  right.  With  a 

186 


HIS  FAMILY  187 

quick  surge  of  compassion  he  pressed  forward,  kissed  her 
awkwardly,  squeezed  her  arm,  then  hastily  greeted  the 
children  and  hurried  away  to  see  to  the  trunks.  That 
much  of  it  was  over.  And  to  his  relief,  when  they  reached 
the  house,  Edith  busied  herself  at  once  in  helping  the 
nurse  put  the  children  to  bed.  Later  he  came  up  and 
told  her  that  he  had  had  a  light  supper  prepared. 

" Thank  you,  dear,57  she  answered,  "it  was  so  thought 
ful  in  you.  But  I'm  too  tired  to  eat  anything."  And  then 
with  a  little  assuring  smile,  "I'll  be  all  right — I'm  going 
to  bed." 

"Good-night,  child,  get  a  fine  long  sleep." 
And  Roger  went  down  to  his  study,  feeling  they  had 
made  a  good  start. 

"What  has  become  of  Martha?"  Edith  asked  her  father 
at  breakfast  the  next  morning. 

"She  left  last  month  to  be  married,"  he  said. 

"And  Deborah  hasn't  replaced  her  yet?"  In  her  voice 
was  such  a  readiness  for  hostility  toward  her  sister,  that 
Roger  shot  an  uneasy  glance  from  under  his  thick  grayish 
brows. 

"Has  Deborah  left  the  house?"  he  asked,  to  gain  time 
for  his  answer.  Edith's  small  lip  slightly  curled. 

"Oh,  yes,  long  ago,"  she  replied.  "She  had  just  a  mo 
ment  to  see  the  children  and  then  she  had  to  be  off  to 
school — to  her  office,  I  mean.  With  so  many  schools  on 
her  hands  these  days,  I  don't  wonder  she  hasn't  had  time 
for  the  servants." 

"No,  no,  you're  mistaken,"  he  said.  "That  isn't  the 
trouble,  it's  not  her  fault.  In  fact  it  was  all  my  idea." 

"Your  idea,"  she  retorted,  in  an  amused  affectionate 
tone.  And  Roger  grimly  gathered  himself.  It  would  be 
extremely  difficult  breaking  his  unpleasant  news. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "You  see  this  damnable  war 
abroad  has  hit  me  in  rny  business." 


188  HIS  FAMILY 

"Oh,  father!  How?"  she  asked  him.  In  an  instant 
she  was  all  alert.  "You  don't  mean  seriously?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered,  and  he  began  to  tell  her  why. 
But  she  soon  grew  impatient.  Business  details  meant 
nothing  to  Edith.  "I  see,"  she  kept  saying,  "yes,  yes,  I 
see."  She  wanted  him  to  come  to  the  point. 

"So  I've  had  to  mortgage  the  house,"  he  concluded. 
"And  for  very  little  money,  my  dear.  And  a  good  deal 
of  that — •"  he  cleared  his  throat — "had  to  go  back  into 
the  business." 

"I  see,"  said  Edith  mechanically.  Her  mind  was  al 
ready  far  away,  roving  over  her  plans  for  the  children. 
For  in  Roger's  look  of  suspense  she  plainly  read  that  other 
plans  had  been  made  for  them  in  her  absence.  "  Deborah's 
in  this!"  flashed  through  her  mind.  "Tell  me  what  it 
will  mean,"  she  said. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  try  to  do  without  your  nurse 
for  a  while." 

"Let  Hannah  go?  Oh,  father!"  And  Edith  flushed 
with  quick  dismay.  "How  can  I,  dad?  Five  children — • 
five!  And  two  of  them  so  little  they  can't  even  dress 
themselves  alone!  And  there  are  all  their  meals — -their 
baths — and  the  older  ones  going  uptown  to  school!  I 
can't  let  them  go  way  uptown  on  the  'bus  or  the  trolley 
without  a  maid — " 

"But,  Edith!"  he  interrupted,  his  face  contracting  with 
distress.  "Don't  you  see  that  they  can't  go  to  school?" 
She  turned  on  him.  "Uptown,  I  mean,  to  those  expensive 
private  schools." 

"Father!"  she  demanded.  "Do  you  mean  you  want 
my  children  to  go  to  common  public  schools?"  There 
was  rage  and  amazement  upon  her  pretty  countenance, 
and  with  it  an  instant  certainty  too.  Yes,  this  was  Deb 
orah's  planning!  But  Roger  thought  that  Edith's  look 
was  all  directed  at  himself.  And  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  felt  the  shame  and  humility  of  the  male  provider 


HIS  FAMILY  189 

no  longer  able  to  provide.  He  reddened  and  looked  down 
at  his  plate. 

"You  don't  understand/'  he  said.  "I'm  strapped,  my 
child — -I  can't  help  it — I'm  poor." 

"Oh.  Oh,  dad.  I'm  sorry."  He  glanced  up  at  his 
daughter  and  saw  tears  welling  in  her  eyes.  How  utterly 
miserable  both  of  them  were. 

"It's  the  war,"  he  said  harshly  and  proudly.  This  made 
a  difference  to  his  pride,  but  not  to  his  daughter's  anxiety. 
She  was  not  interested  in  the  war,  or  in  any  other  cause  of 
the  abyss  she  was  facing.  She  strove  to  think  clearly  what 
to  do.  But  no,  she  must  do  her  thinking  alone.  With  a 
sudden  quiet  she  rose  from  the  table,  went  around  to  her 
father's  chair  and  kissed  him  very  gently. 

"All  right,  dear — I  see  it  all  now — and  I  promise  I'll 
try  my  best,"  she  said. 

"You're  a  brave  little  woman,"  he  replied. 

But  after  she  had  gone,  he  reflected.  Why  had  he  called 
her  a  brave  little  woman?  Why  had  it  all  been  so  intense, 
the  talk  upon  so  heroic  a  plane?  It  would  be  hard  on  Edith, 
of  course;  but  others  were  doing  it,  weren't  they?  Think 
of  the  women  in  Europe  these  days!  After  all,  she'd  be 
very  comfortable  here,  and  perhaps  by  Christmas  times 
would  change. 

He  shook  off  these  petty  troubles  and  went  to  his  office 
for  the  day. 

As  she  busied  herself  unpacking  the  trunks,  Edith  strove 
to  readjust  her  plans.  By  noon  her  head  was  throbbing, 
but  she  took  little  notice  of  that.  She  had  a  talk  with 
Hannah,  the  devoted  Irish  girl  who  had  been  with  her 
ever  since  George  was  born.  It  was  difficult,  it  was  brutal. 
It  was  almost  as  though  in  Edith's  family  there  had  been 
two  mothers,  and  one  was  sending  the  other  away. 

"There,  there,  poor  child,"  Edith  comforted  her,  "I'll 
find  you  another  nice  family  soon  where  you  can  stay  till 


190  HIS  FAMILY 

I  take  you  back.  Don't  you  see  it  will  not  be  for  long?  " 
And  Hannah  brightened  a  little. 

"But  how  in  the  wide  wurrld,"  she  asked,  "will  you 
ever  do  for  the  children,  me  gone?'7 

"Oh,  I'll  manage/'  said  Edith  cheerfully.  And  that 
afternoon  she  began  at  once  to  rearrange  her  whole  intri 
cate  schedule,  with  Hannah  and  school  both  omitted,  to 
fit  her  children  into  the  house.  But  instead  of  this,  as 
the  days  wore  on,  nerve-racking  days  of  worry  and  toil, 
sternly  and  quite  unconsciously  she  fitted  the  house  to  her 
children.  And  nobody  made  her  aware  of  the  fact.  All 
summer  long  in  the  mountains,  everyone  by  tacit  consent 
had  made  way  for  her,  had  deferred  to  her  grief  in  the 
little  things  that  make  up  the  everyday  life  in  a  home. 
And  to  this  precedent  once  established  Edith  now  clung 
unawares. 

Her  new  day  gave  her  small  time  to  think.  It  began  at 
five  in  the  morning,  when  Roger  was  awakened  by  the 
gleeful  cries  of  the  two  wee  boys  who  slept  with  their 
mother  in  the  next  room,  the  room  which  had  been  Deb 
orah's.  And  Edith  was  busy  from  that  time  on.  First 
came  the  washing  and  dressing  and  breakfast,  which  was 
a  merry,  boisterous  meal.  Then  the  baby  was  taken  out 
to  his  carriage  on  the  porch  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
And  after  that,  in  her  father's  study  from  which  he  had 
fled  with  his  morning  cigar,  for  two  hours  Edith  held  school 
for  her  children,  trying  her  best  to  be  patient  and  clear, 
with  text-books  she  had  purchased  from  their  former 
schools  uptown.  For  two  severe  hours,  shutting  the 
world  all  out  of  her  head,  she  tried  to  teach  them  about  it. 
At  eleven,  their  nerves  on  edge  like  her  own,  she  sent 
them  outdoors  "to  play,"  intrusting  the  small  ones  to 
Betsy  and  George,  who  took  them  to  Washington  Square 
nearby  with  strict  injunctions  to  keep  them  away  from 
all  other  children.  No  doubt  there  were  "nice"  children 
there,  but  she  herself  could  not  be  along  to  distinguish 


HIS  FAMILY  191 

the  "nice"  from  the  "common" — for  until  one  o'clock  she 
was  busy  at  home,  bathing  the  baby  and  making  the  beds, 
and  then  hurrying  to  the  kitchen  to  pasteurize  the  baby's 
milk  and  keep  a  vigilant  oversight  on  the  cooking  of  the 
midday  meal.  And  the  old  cook's  growing  resentment 
made  it  far  from  easy. 

After  luncheon,  thank  heaven,  came  their  naps.  And 
all  afternoon,  while  again  they  went  out,  Edith  would 
look  over  their  wardrobes,  mend  and  alter  and  patch 
and  contrive  how  to  make  last  winter's  clothes  look  new. 
At  times  she  would  drop  her  work  in  her  lap  and  stare 
wretchedly  before  her.  This  was  what  she  had  never 
known ;  this  was  what  made  life  around  her  grim  and  hard, 
relentless,  frightening;  this  was  what  it  was  to  be  poor. 
How  it  changed  the  whole  city  of  New  York.  Behind  it, 
the  sinister  cause  of  it  all,  she  thought  confusedly  now  and 
then  of  the  Great  Death  across  the  sea,  of  the  armies, 
smoking  battle-fields,  the  shrieks  of  the  dying,  the  villages 
blazing,  the  women  and  children  flying  away.  But  never 
for  more  than  a  moment.  The  war  was  so  remote  and  dim. 
And  soon  she  would  turn  back  again  to  her  own  beloved 
children,  whose  lives,  so  full  of  happiness,  so  rich  in  prom 
ise  hitherto,  were  now  so  cramped  and  thwarted.  Each 
day  was  harder  than  the  last.  It  was  becoming  unbeara 
ble! 

No,  they  must  go  back  to  school.  But  how  to  manage 
it?  How?  How?  It  would  cost  eight  hundred  dollars, 
and  this  would  take  nearly  all  the  money  she  would  be 
able  to  secure  by  the  sale  of  her  few  possessions.  And  then 
what?  What  of  sickness,  and  the  other  contingencies 
which  still  lay  ahead  of  her?  How  old  her  father  seemed, 
these  days !  In  his  heavy  shock  of  hair  the  flecks  of  white 
had  doubled  in  size,  were  merging  one  into  the  other,  and 
his  tall,  stooping,  massive  frame  had  lost  its  look  of  rugged- 
ness.  Suppose,  suppose.  .  .  .  Her  breath  came  fast.  Was 
his  life  insured,  she  wondered. 


192  HIS  FAMILY 

On  such  afternoons,  in  the  upstairs  room  as  the  dusk 
crept  in  and  deepened,  she  would  bend  close  to  her  sewing 
— planning,  planning,  planning.  At  last  she  would  hear 
the  children  trooping  merrily  into  the  house.  And  making 
a  very  real  effort,  which  at  times  was  in  truth  heroic,  to 
smile,  she  would  rise  and  light  the  gas,  would  welcome 
them  gaily  and  join  in  their  chatter  and  bustle  about  on 
the  countless  tasks  of  washing  them,  getting  their  suppers, 
undressing  the  small  ones  and  hearing  their  prayers.  With 
smiling  good-night  kisses  she  would  tuck  her  two  babies 
into  their  cribs.  Afterward,  just  for  a  moment  or  two,  she 
would  linger  under  the  gas  jet,  her  face  still  smiling,  for  a 
last  look.  A  last  good-night.  Then  darkness. 

Darkness  settling  over  her  spirit,  together  with  loneli- 
less  and  fatigue.  She  would  go  into  Betsy's  room  and 
throw  herself  dressed  on  her  daughter's  bed,  and  a  dull 
complete  indifference  to  everything  under  the  moon  and 
the  stars  would  creep  from  her  body  up  into  her  mind. 
At  times  she  would  try  to  fight  it  off.  To-night  at  dinner 
she  must  not  be  what  she  knew  she  had  been  the  night 
before,  a  wet  blanket  upon  all  the  talk.  But  if  they  only 
knew  how  hard  it  was — what  a  perfect — hell  it  was!  Her 
breath  coming  faster,  she  would  dig  her  nails  into  the  palms 
of  her  hands.  One  night  she  noticed  and  looked  at  her 
hand,  and  saw  the  skin  was  actually  cut  and  a  little 
blood  was  appearing.  She  had  read  of  women  doing  this, 
but  she  had  never  done  it  before — not  even  when  her 
babies  were  born.  She  had  gripped  Bruce's  hand  instead. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ROGER  found  her  like  that  one  evening.  He  heard 
what  he  thought  was  a  sob  from  the  room,  for  she  had 
forgotten  to  close  the  door.  He  came  into  the  doorway 
but  drew  back,  and  closed  the  door  with  barely  a  sound. 
Frowning  and  irresolute,  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  hall, 
then  turned  and  went  into  his  room.  Soon  he  heard  Deb 
orah  enter  the  house  and  come  slowly  up  the  stairs.  She 
too  had  had  a  hard  day,  he  recalled,  a  day  all  filled  with 
turbulence,  with  problems  and  with  vexing  toil,  in  her 
enormous  family.  And  he  felt  he  could  not  blame  her  for 
not  being  of  more  help  at  home.  Still,  he  had  been  dis 
appointed  of  late  in  her  manner  toward  her  sister.  He 
had  hoped  she  would  draw  closer  to  Edith,  now  that 
again  they  were  living  together  in  their  old  home  where 
they  had  been  born.  But  no,  it  had  worked  just  the  oppo 
site  way.  They  were  getting  upon  each  other's  nerves. 
Why  couldn't  she  make  overtures,  small  kindly  proffers  of 
help  and  advice  and  sympathy,  the  womanly  things? 

From  his  room  he  heard  her  knock  softly  at  the  same 
door  he  had  closed.  And  he  heard  her  low  clear  voice: 

"Are  you  there,  Edith  dear?''  He  listened  a  moment 
intently,  but  he  could  not  hear  the  reply.  Then  Deborah 
said,  "Oh,  you  poor  thing.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  Edith — 
don't  bother  to  come  downstairs — let  me  bring  you  up 
your  supper."  A  pause.  "I  wish  you  would.  I'd  love 
to." 

He  heard  Deborah  come  by  his  door  and  go  up  the 
second  flight  of  stairs  to  the  room  she  had  taken  on  the 
third  floor. 

193 


194  HIS  FAMILY 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  reflected,  "she  has  been  trying — but 
it  doesn't  do  any  good.  Women  simply  haven't  it  in  'em 
to  see  each  other's  point  of  view.  Deborah  doesn't  admire 
Edith — she  can't,  she  only  pities  her  and  puts  her  down 
as  out  of  date.  And  Edith  feels  that,  and  it  gets  her  riled, 
and  she  sets  herself  like  an  angry  old  hen  against  all 
Deborah's  new  ideas.  Why  the  devil  can't  they  live  and 
let  live?" 

And  he  hesitated  savagely  between  a  pearl  gray  and  a 
black  cravat.  Then  he  heard  another  step  on  the  stairs. 
It  was  much  slower  than  Deborah's,  and  cautious  and 
dogged,  one  foot  lifted  carefully  after  the  other.  It  was 
John,  who  had  finished  his  kitchen  supper  and  was  silently 
making  his  way  up  through  the  house  to  his  room  at  the 
top,  there  to  keep  out  of  sight  for  the  evening.  And  it 
came  into  Roger's  mind  that  John  had  been  acting  in  just 
this  fashion  ever  since  Edith  had  been  in  the  house. 

"We'll  have  trouble  there,  too!''  he  told  himself,  as  he 
jerked  the  black  satin  cravat  into  place,  a  tie  he  thoroughly 
disliked.  Yes,  black,  by  George,  he  felt  like  it  to-night! 
These  women!  These  evenings!  This  worry!  .  This  war! 
This  world  gone  raving,  driveling  mad! 

And  frowning  with  annoyance,  Roger  went  down  to  his 
dinner. 

As  he  waited  he  grew  impatient.  He  had  eaten  no  lunch, 
he  was  hungry;  and  he  was  very  tired,  too,  for  he  had  had 
his  own  hard  day.  Pshaw!  He  got  up  angrily.  Somebody 
must  be  genial  here.  He  went  into  the  dining  room  and 
poured  himself  a  good  stiff  drink.  Roger  had  never  been 
much  of  a  drinker.  Ever  since  his  marriage,  cigars  had 
been  his  only  vice.  But  of  late  he  had  been  having  curious 
little  sinking  spells.  They  worried  him,  and  he  told  him 
self  he  could  not  afford  to  get  either  too  tired  or  too  faint. 

Nevertheless,  he  reflected,  it  was  setting  a  bad  example 
for  George.  But  glancing  into  his  study  he  saw  that  the 
lad  was  completely  absorbed.  With  knees  drawn  up, 


HIS  FAMILY  195 

his  long  lank  form  all  hunched  and  huddled  on  the  lounge, 
hair  rumpled,  George  was  reading  a  book  which  had  a  cover 
of  tough  gray  cloth.  At  the  sight  of  it  his  grandfather 
smiled,  for  he  had  seen  it  once  before.  Where  George  had 
obtained  it,  the  Lord  only  knew.  Its  title  was  "Bulls 
and  Breeding."  A  thoroughly  practical  little  book,  but 
nothing  for  George's  mother  to  see.  As  his  grandfather 
entered  behind  him,  the  boy  looked  up  with  a  guilty  start, 
and  resumed  with  a  short  breath  of  relief. 

Young  Elizabeth,  too,  had  a  furtive  air,  for  instead  of 
preparing  her  history  lesson  she  was  deep  in  the  evening 
paper  reading  about  the  war  abroad.  Stout  and  florid, 
rather  plain,  but  with  a  frank,  attractive  face  and  honest, 
clear,  appealing  eyes,  this  curious  creature  of  thirteen  was 
sitting  firmly  in  her  chair  with  her  feet  planted  wide  apart, 
eagerly  scanning  an  account  of  the  work  of  American  sur 
geons  in  France.  And  again  Roger  smiled  to  himself. 
(He  was  feeling  so  much  better  now.)  So  Betsy  was  still 
thinking  of  becoming  a  surgeon.  He  wondered  what  she 
would  take  up  next.  In  the  past  two  years  in  swift  suc 
cession  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  be  a  novelist,  an  ac 
tress  and  a  women's  college  president.  And  Roger  liked 
this  tremendously. 

He  loved  to  watch  these  two  in  the  house.  Here  again 
his  family  was  widening  out  before  him,  with  new  figures 
arising  to  draw  his  attention  this  way  and  that.  But 
these  were  bright  distractions.  He  took  a  deep,  amused 
delight  in  watching  these  two  youngsters  caught  between 
two  fires,  on  the  one  side  their  mother  and  upon  the  other 
their  aunt;  both  obviously  drawn  toward  Deborah,  a 
figure  who  stood  in  their  regard  for  all  that  thrilling  out 
side  world,  that  heaving  sparkling  ocean  on  which  they 
too  would  soon  embark;  both  sternly  repressing  their 
eagerness  as  an  insult  to  their  mother,  whom  they  loved 
and  pitied  so,  regarding  her  as  a  brave  and  dear  but  rapidly 
ageing  creature  "well  on  in  her  thirties,"  whom  they  must 


196  HIS  FAMILY 

cherish  and  preserve.  They  both  had  such  solemn  thoughts 
as  they  looked  at  Edith  in  her  chair.  But  as  Roger  watched 
them,  with  their  love  and  their  solemnity,  their  guilt  and 
their  perplexity,  with  quiet  enjoyment  he  would  wait  to 
see  the  change  he  knew  would  come.  And  it  always 
did.  The  sudden  picking  up  of  a  book,  the  vanishing  of 
an  anxious  frown,  and  in  an  instant  their  young  minds  had 
turned  happily  back  into  themselves,  into  their  own 
engrossing  lives,  their  plans,  their  intimate  dreams  and 
ambitions,  all  so  curiously  bound  up  with  memories  of 
small  happenings  which  had  struck  them  as  funny  that 
day  and  at  which  they  would  suddenly  chuckle  aloud. 

And  this  was  only  one  stage  in  their  growth.  What 
would  be  the  next,  he  asked,  and  all  the  others  after  that? 
What  kind  of  world  would  they  live  in?  Please  heaven, 
there  would  be  no  wars.  Many  old  things,  no  doubt, 
would  be  changed,  by  the  work  of  Deborah  and  her  kind — 
but  not  too  many,  Roger  hoped.  And  these  young  people, 
meanwhile,  would  be  bringing  up  children  in  their  turn. 
So  the  family  would  go  on,  and  multiply  and  scatter  wide, 
never  to  unite  again.  And  he  thought  he  could  catch 
glimpses,  very  small  and  far  away  but  bright  as  patches 
of  sunlight  upon  distant  mountain  tops,  into  the  widening 
vista  of  those  many  lives  ahead.  A  wistful  look  crept 
over  his  face. 

"In  their  lives  too  we  shall  be  there,  the  dim  strong 
figures  of  the  past." 

Deborah  came  into  the  room,  and  at  once  the  whole 
atmosphere  changed.  Her  niece  sprang  up  delightedly. 

"Why,  Auntie,  how  lovely  you  look!"  she  exclaimed. 
And  Roger  eyed  Deborah  in  surprise.  Though  she  did 
not  believe  in  mourning,  she  had  been  wearing  dark 
gowns  of  late  to  avoid  hurting  Edith's  feelings.  But 
to-night  she  had  donned  bright  colors  instead;  her  dress 
was  as  near  decollete  as  anything  that  Deborah  wore, 


HIS  FAMILY  197 

and  there  was  a  band  of  dull  blue  velvet  bound  about  her 
hair. 

"Thanks,  dearie,"  she  said,  smiling.  " Shall  we  go  in 
to  dinner  now?"  she  added  to  her  father.  " Edith  said 
not  to  wait  for  her — and  I'll  have  to  be  off  rather  early 
this  evening." 

"  What  is  it  to-night?"  he  inquired. 

"A  big  meeting  at  Cooper  Union." 

And  at  dinner  she  went  on  to  say  that  in  her  five  schools 
the  neighborhood  clubs  had  combined  to  hold  this  meeting, 
and  she  herself  was  to  preside.  At  once  her  young  niece 
was  all  animation. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  could  go  and  hear  you!"  she  sighed. 

"Afraid  you  can't,  Betsy,"  her  aunt  replied.  And  at 
this,  with  an  instinctive  glance  toward  the  door  where  her 
mother  would  soon  come  in  to  stop  by  her  mere  presence 
all  such  conversation,  Elizabeth  eagerly  threw  out  one 
inquiry  after  the  other,  pell  mell. 

"How  on  earth  do  you  do  it?"  she  wanted  to  know. 
"How  do  you  get  a  speech  ready,  Aunt  Deborah — how 
much  of  it  do  you  write  out  ahead?  Aren't  you  just  the 
least  bit  nervous — now,  I  mean — this  minute?  And  how 
will  you  feel  on  the  platform?  What  on  earth  do  you  do 
with  your  feet?" 

As  the  girl  bent  forward  there  with  her  gaze  fixed  ar 
dently  on  her  aunt,  her  grandfather  thought  in  half  comic 
dismay,  "Lord,  now  she'll  want  to  be  a  great  speaker — 
like  her  aunt.  And  she  will  tell  her  mother  so!" 

"What's  the  meeting  all  about?"  he  inquired.  And 
Deborah  began  to  explain. 

In  her  five  schools  the  poverty  was  rapidly  becoming 
worse.  Each  week  more  children  stayed  away  or  came  to 
school  ragged  and  unkempt,  some  without  any  overcoats, 
small  pitiful  mites  wearing  shoes  so  old  as  barely  to  stick 
on  their  feet.  And  when  the  teachers  and  visitors  followed 
these  children  into  their  homes  they  found  bare,  dirty, 


198  HIS  FAMILY 

chilly  rooms  where  the  little  folk  shivered  and  wailed  for 
food  and  the  mothers  looked  distracted,  gaunt  and  sullen 
and  half  crazed.  Over  three  hundred  thousand  workers 
were  idle  in  the  city.  Meanwhile,  to  make  matters  worse, 
half  the  money  from  uptown  which  had  gone  in  former 
years  into  work  for  the  tenements  was  going  over  to  Bel 
gium  instead.  And  the  same  relentless  drain  of  war  was 
felt  by  the  tenement  people  themselves;  for  all  of  them 
were  foreigners,  and  from  their  relatives  abroad,  in  those 
wide  zones  of  Europe  already  blackened  and  laid  waste, 
in  endless  torrents  through  the  mails  came  wild  appeals 
for  money. 

In  such  homes  her  children  lived.  And  Deborah  had 
set  her  mind  on  vigorous  measures  of  relief.  Landlords 
must  be  made  to  wait  and  the  city  be  persuaded  to  give 
work  to  the  most  needy,  food  and  fuel  must  be  secured. 
As  she  spoke  of  the  task  before  her,  with  a  flush  of  anima 
tion  upon  her  bright  expressive  face  at  the  thought  that 
in  less  than  an  hour  she  would  be  facing  thousands  of  peo 
ple,  the  gloom  of  the  picture  she  painted  was  dispelled  in 
the  spirit  she  showed. 

"These  things  always  work  out,"  she  declared,  with 
an  impatient  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  And  watching  her 
admiringly,  young  Betsy  thought,  "How  strong  she  is! 
What  a  wonderful  grown-up  woman!"  And  Roger 
watching  thought,  "How  young." 

"What  things?"  It  was  Edith's  voice  at  the  door,  and 
among  those  at  the  table  there  was  a  little  stir  of  alarm. 
She  had  entered  unnoticed  and  now  took  her  seat.  She 
was  looking  pale  and  tired.  "What  things  work  out  so 
finely?  "  she  asked,  and  with  a  glance  at  Deborah's  gown, 
"Where  are  you  going?"  she  added. 

"To  a  meeting,"  Deborah  answered. 

"Oh."  And  Edith  began  her  soup.  In  the  awkward 
pause  that  followed,  twice  Deborah  started  to  speak  to  her 


HIS  FAMILY  199 

sister,  but  checked  herself,  for  at  other  dinners  just  like 
this  she  had  made  such  dismal  failures. 

"By  the  way,  Edith/'  she  said,  at  last,  "I've  been 
thinking  of  all  that  furniture  of  yours  which  is  lying  in 
storage."  Her  sister  looked  up  at  her,  startled. 

"What  about  it?"  she  asked. 

"There's  so  much  of  it  you  don't  care  for,"  Deborah 
answered  quietly.  "Why  don't  you  let  a  part  of  it  go? 
I  mean  the  few  pieces  you've  always  disliked." 

"For  what  purpose?" 

"Why,  it  seems  such  a  pity  not  to  have  Hannah  back 
in  the  house.  She  would  make  things  so  much  easier." 
Roger  felt  a  glow  of  relief. 

"A  capital  plan!"  he  declared  at  once. 

"It  would  be,"  Edith  corrected  him,  "if  I  hadn't  al 
ready  made  other  plans."  And  then  in  a  brisk,  breathless 
tone,  "You  see  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  she  said,  "to 
sell  not  only  part  but  all  my  furniture — very  soon — and 
a  few  other  belongings  as  well — and  use  the  money  to  put 
George  and  Elizabeth  and  little  Bob  back  in  the  schools 
where  they  belong." 

"Mother!"  gasped  Elizabeth,  and  with  a  prolonged 
"Oh-h"  of  delight  she  ran  around  to  her  mother's  chair. 

"But  look  here,"  George  blurted  worriedly,  "I  don't 
like  it,  mother,  darned  if  I  do!  You're  selling  everything 
— just  for  school!" 

"School  is  rather  important,  George,"  was  Edith's 
tart  rejoinder.  "If  you  don't  think  so,  ask  your  aunt." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Auntie?"  he  asked.  The 
cloud  which  had  come  on  Deborah's  face  was  lifted  in  an 
instant. 

"I  think,  George,"  she  answered  gently,  "that  you'd 
better  let  your  mother  do  what  she  thinks  best  for  you. 
It  will  make  things  easier  here  in  the  house,"  she  added, 
to  her  sister,  "but  I  wish  you  could  have  Hannah, 
too." 


200  HIS  FAMILY 

"Oh,  I'll  manage  nicely  now/'said  Edith.  And  with  a 
slight  smile  of  triumph  she  resumed  her  dinner. 

"The  war  won't  last  forever,"  muttered  Roger  un 
easily.  And  to  himself:  "But  suppose  it  should  last — a 
year  or  more."  He  did  not  approve  of  Edith's  scheme. 
"It's  burning  her  bridges  all  at  once,  for  something  that 
isn't  essential,"  he  thought.  But  he  would  not  tell 
her  so. 

Meanwhile  Deborah  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Oh!  It's  nearly  eight  o'clock!  I  must  hurry  or  I'll 
be  late,"  she  said.  "Good-night,  all—" 

And  she  left  them. 

Roger  followed  her  into  the  hall. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this?"  he  demanded.  Her 
reply  was  a  tolerant  shrug. 

"It's  her  own  money,  father — " 

"All  her  money!"  he  rejoined.  "Every  dollar  she  has 
in  the  world!" 

"But  I  don't  just  see  how  it  can  be  helped." 

"Can't  you  talk  to  her,  show  her  what  folly  it  is?" 

"Hardly,"  said  Deborah,  smiling.  Already  she  had  on 
her  coat  and  hat  and  was  turning  to  go.  And  her  father 
scowled  with  annoyance.  She  was  always  going,  he  told 
himself,  leaving  him  to  handle  her  sister  alone.  He  would 
like  to  go  out  himself  in  the  evenings — yes,  by  George, 
this  very  night — it  would  act  like  a  tonic  on  his  mind.  Just 
for  a  moment,  standing  there,  he  saw  Cooper  Union  packed 
to  the  doors,  he  heard  the  ringing  speeches,  the  cheers. 
But  no,  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  With  this  silent  war 
going  on  in  his  house  he  knew  he  must  stay  neutral. 
Watchful  waiting  was  his  course.  If  he  went  out  with 
Deborah,  Edith  would  be  distinctly  hurt,  and  sitting  all 
evening  here  alone  she  would  draw  still  deeper  into  her 
self.  And  so  it  would  be  night  after  night,  as  it  had  been 
for  many  weeks.  He  would  be  cooped  up  at  home  while 
Deborah  did  the  running  about.  ...  In  half  the  time 


HIS  FAMILY  201 

it  takes  to  tell  it,  Roger  had  worked  himself  into  a  state 
where  he  felt  like  a  mighty  badly  used  man. 

"I  wish  you  would  speak  to  her,"  he  said.  "I  wish  you 
could  manage  to  find  time  to  be  here  more  in  the  evenings. 
Edith  worries  so  much  and  she's  trying  so  hard.  A  little 
sympathy  now  and  then — " 

"But  she  doesn't  seem  to  want  any  from  me,"  said  his 
daughter,  a  bit  impatiently.  "I  know  it's  hard — of  course 
it  is.  But  what  can  I  do?  She  won't  let  me  help.  And 
besides — there  are  other  families,  you  know — thousands — 
really  suffering — for  the  lack  of  all  that  we  have  here." 
She  smiled  and  kissed  him  quickly.  "  Good-night,  dad 
dear,  I've  got  to  run." 

And  the  door  closed  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AFTER  dinner  that  night,  in  the  living  room  the  two 
older  children  studied  their  lessons  and  Edith  sat  mending 
a  pair  of  rompers  for  little  Tad.  Presently  Roger  came  out 
from  his  den  with  the  evening  paper  in  his  hand  and  sat 
down  close  beside  her.  He  did  this  conscientiously  almost 
every  evening.  With  a  sigh  he  opened  his  paper  to  read, 
again  there  was  silence  in  the  room,  and  in  this  silence 
Roger's  mind  roamed  far  away  across  the  sea. 

For  the  front  page  of  his  paper  was  filled  with  the  usual 
headlines,  tidings  which  a  year  before  would  have  made  a 
man's  heart  jump  into  his  throat,  but  which  were  getting 
commonplace  now.  Dead  and  wounded  by  the  thou 
sands,  famine,  bombs  and  shrapnel,  hideous  atrocities,  sub 
marines  and  floating  mines,  words  once  remote  but  now 
familiar,  always  there  on  the  front  page  and  penetrating 
into  his  soul,  becoming  a  part  of  Roger  Gale,  so  that  never 
again  when  the  war  was  done  would  he  be  the  same  man 
he  was  before.  For  he  had  forever  lost  his  faith  in 
the  sanity  and  steadiness  of  the  great  mind  of  humanity. 
Roger  had  thought  of  mankind  as  mature,  but  there  had 
come  to  him  of  late  the  same  feeling  he  had  had  before  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family.  Mankind  had  suddenly  un 
masked  and  shown  itself  for  what  it  was — still  only  a 
precocious  child,  with  a  terrible  precocity.  For  its  growth 
had  been  one  sided.  Its  strength  was  growing  at  a  speed 
breathless  and  astounding.  But  its  vision  and  its  poise, 
its  sense  of  human  justice,  of  kindliness  and  tolerance  and 
of  generous  brotherly  love,  these  had  been  neglected  and 
were  being  left  behind.  Vaguely  he  thought  of  its  ships 
of  steel,  its  railroads  and  its  flaming  mills,  its  miracles, 

202 


HIS  FAMILY  203 

its  prodigies.  And  the  picture  rose  in  his  mind  of  a  child, 
standing  there  of  giant's  size  with  dangerous  playthings 
in  its  hands,  and  boastfully  declaring, 

"I  can  thunder  over  the  earth,  dive  in  the  ocean,  soar 
on  the  clouds!  I  can  shiver  to  atoms  a  mountain,  I  can 
drench  whole  lands  with  blood!  I  can  look  up  and  laugh 
at  God!" 

And  Roger  frowned  as  he  read  the  news.  What  strange 
new  century  lay  ahead?  What  convulsing  throes  of 
change?  What  was  in  store  for  his  children?  Tighter  set 
his  heavy  jaw. 

"It  shall  be  good/7  he  told  himself  with  a  grim  deter 
mination.  "  For  them  there  shall  be  better  things.  Some 
thing  great  and  splendid  shall  come  out  of  it  at  last. 
They  will  look  back  upon  this  time  as  I  look  on  the  French 
Revolution." 

He  tried  to  peer  into  that  world  ahead,  dazzling,  distant 
as  the  sun.  But  then  with  a  sigh  he  returned  to  the  news, 
and  little  by  little  his  mind  again  was  gripped  and  held 
by  the  most  compelling  of  all  appeals  so  far  revealed  in 
humanity's  growth,  the  appeal  of  war  to  the  mind  of  a 
man.  He  frowned  as  he  read,  but  he  read  on.  Why 
didn't  England  send  over  more  men? 

The  clock  struck  nine. 

"Now,  George.  Now,  Elizabeth,"  Edith  said.  With 
the  usual  delay  and  reluctance  the  children  brought  their 
work  to  an  end,  kissed  their  mother  and  went  up  to  bed. 
And  Edith  continued  sewing.  Presently  she  smiled  to 
herself.  Little  Tad  had  been  so  droll  that  day. 

On  the  third  page  of  his  paper,  Roger's  glance  was 
arrested  by  a  full  column  story  concerning  Deborah's 
meeting  that  night.  And  as  in  a  long  interview  he  read 
here  in  the  public  print  the  same  things  she  had  told  him 
at  supper,  he  felt  a  little  glow  of  pride.  Yes,  this  daughter 
of  his  was  a  wonderful  woman,  living  a  big  useful  life, 
taking  a  leading  part  in  work  which  would  certainly 


204  HIS  FAMILY 

brighten  the  lives  of  millions  of  children  still  unborn. 
Again  he  felt  the  tonic  of  it.  Here  was  a  glimmer  of  hope 
in  the  world,  here  was  an  antidote  to  war.  He  finished  the 
column  and  glanced  up. 

Edith  was  still  sewing.  He  thought  of  her  plan  to  sell 
all  she  possessed  in  order  to  put  her  children  back  in  their 
expensive  schools  uptown. 

"Why  can't  she  save  her  money?"  he  thought.  "God 
knows  there's  little  enough  of  it  left.  But  I  can't  tell  her 
that.  If  I  do  she'll  sell  everything,  hand  me  the  cash  and 
tell  me  she's  sorry  to  be  such  a  burden.  She'll  sit  like  a 
thundercloud  in  my  house." 

No,  he  could  say  nothing  to  stop  her.  And  over  the  top 
of  his  paper  her  father  shot  a  look  at  her  of  keen  exaspera 
tion.  Why  risk  everything  she  had  to  get  these  needless 
frills  and  fads?  Why  must  she  cram  her  life  s6  full  of  petty 
plans  and  worries  and  titty-tatty  little  jobs?  For  the 
Lord's  sake,  leave  their  clothes  alone!  And  why  these 
careful  little  rules  for  every  minute  of  their  day,  for  their 
washing,  their  dressing,  their  eating,  their  napping,  their 
play  and  the  very  air  they  breathed!  He  crumpled  his 
paper  impatiently.  She  was  always  talking  of  being  old- 
fashioned.  Well  then,  why  not  be  that  way?  Let  her 
live  as  her  grandmother  had,  up  there  in  the  mountain 
farmhouse.  She  had  not  been  so  particular.  With  one 
hired  girl  she  had  thought  herself  lucky.  And  not  only 
had  she  cooked  and  sewed,  but  she  had  spun  and  woven 
too,  had  churned  and  made  cheese  and  pickles  and  jam 
and  quilts  and  even  mattresses.  Once  in  two  months 
she  had  cut  Roger's  hair,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  she  had 
let  him  alone,  except  for  something  really  worth  while — 
a  broken  arm,  for  example,  or  church.  She  had  stuck  to 
the  essentials !  .  .  .  But  Edith  was  not  old-fashioned,  nor 
was  she  alive  to  this  modern  age.  In  short,  she  was  neither 
here  nor  there! 

Then  from  the  nursery  above,  her  smallest  boy  was 


HIS  FAMILY  205 

heard  to  cry.  With  a  little  sigh  of  weariness,  quickly  she 
rose  and  went  upstairs,  and  a  few  moments  later  to  Roger's 
ears  came  a  low,  sweet,  soothing  lullaby.  Years  ago  Edith 
had  asked  him  to  teach  her  some  of  his  mother's  cradle 
songs.  And  the  one  which  she  was  singing  to-night  was 
a  song  he  had  heard  when  he  was  small,  when  the  moun 
tain  storms  had  shrieked  and  beat  upon  the  rattling  old 
house  and  he  had  been  frightened  and  had  cried  out  and 
his  mother  had  come  to  his  bed  in  the  dark.  He  felt  as 
though  she  were  near  him  now.  And  as  he  listened  to  the 
song,  from  the  deep  well  of  sentiment  which  was  a  part 
of  Roger  Gale  rose  memories  that  changed  his  mood,  and 
with  it  his  sense  of  proportions. 

Here  was  motherhood  of  the  genuine  kind,  not  orating 
in  Cooper  Union  in  the  name  of  every  child  in  New  York, 
but  crooning  low  and  tenderly,  soothing  one  little  child  to 
sleep,  one  of  the  five  she  herself  had  borne,  in  agony,  with 
out  complaint.  How  Edith  had  slaved  and  sacrificed,  how 
bravely  she  had  rallied  after  the  death  of  her  husband. 
He  remembered  her  a  few  hours  ago  on  the  bed  upstairs, 
spent  and  in  anguish,  sobbing,  alone.  And  remorse  came 
over  him.  Deborah's  talk  at  dinner  had  twisted  his  think 
ing,  he  told  himself.  Well,  that  was  Deborah's  way  of 
life.  She  had  her  enormous  family  and  Edith  had  her 
small  one,  and  in  this  hell  of  misery  which  war  was  spread 
ing  over  the  earth  each  mother  was  up  in  arms  for  her 
brood.  And,  by  George,  of  the  two  he  didn't  know  but 
that  he  preferred  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  All  very  noble, 
Miss  Deborah,  and  very  dramatic,  to  open  your  arms  to 
all  the  children  under  the  moon  and  get  your  name  in  the 
papers.  But  there  was  something  pretty  fine  in  just  sitting 
at  home  and  singing  to  one. 

"All  right,  little  mother,  you  go  straight  ahead. 
This  is  war  and  panic  and  hard  times.  You're  perfectly 
right  to  look  after  your  own." 

He  would  show  Edith  he  did  not  begrudge  her  this 


206  HIS  FAMILY 

use  of  her  small  property.  And  more  than  that,  he  would 
do  what  he  could  to  take  her  out  of  her  loneliness.  How 
about  reading  aloud  to  her?  He  had  been  a  capital  reader, 
during  Judith's  lifetime,  for  he  had  always  enjoyed  it 
so.  Roger  rose  and  went  to  his  shelves  and  began  to  look 
over  the  volumes  there.  Perhaps  a  book  of  travel.  .  .  . 
Stoddard's  "  Lectures  on  Japan." 

Meanwhile  Edith  came  into  the  room,  sat  down  and 
took  up  her  sewing.  As  she  did  so  he  turned  and  glanced 
at  her,  and  she  smiled  brightly  back  at  him.  Yes,  he 
thought  with  a  genial  glow,  from  this  night  on  he  would 
do  his  part.  He  came  back  to  his  chair  with  a  book  in 
his  hand,  prepared  to  start  on  his  new  course. 

"Father,"  she  said  quietly.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  work 
in  her  lap. 

"Yes,  my  child,  what  is  it?" 

"It's  about  John,"  she  answered.  And  with  a  move 
ment  of  alarm  he  looked  at  his  daughter  intently. 

"What's  the  matter  with  John?"  he  inquired. 

"He  has  tuberculosis,"  she  said. 

"  He  has  no  such  thing ! "  her  father  retorted.  "John  has 
Pott's  Disease  of  the  spine!" 

"Yes,  I  know  he  has,"  she  replied.  "And  I'm  sorry  for 
him,  poor  lad.  But  in  the  last  year,"  she  added,  "certain 
complications  have  come.  And  now  he's  tubercular  as 
well." 

"How  do  you  know?  He  doesn't  cough — his  lungs  are 
sound  as  yours  or  mine!" 

"No,  it's—"  Edith  pursed  her  lips.  "It's  different," 
she  said  softly. 

"Who  told  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Not  Deborah,"  was  the  quick  response.  "She  knew 
it,  I'm  certain,  for  I  find  that  she's  been  having  Mrs. 
Neale,  the  woman  who  comes  in  to  wash,  do  John's  things 
in  a  separate  tub.  I  found  her  doing  it  yesterday,  and  she 
told  me  what  Deborah  had  said." 


HIS  FAMILY  207 

"It's  the  first  I'd  heard  of  it,"  Roger  put-in. 

"I  know  it  is,"  she  answered.  "For  if  you'd  heard  of 
it  before,  I  don't  believe  you'd  have  been  as  ready  as 
Deborah  was,  apparently,  to  risk  infecting  the  children 
here."  Edith's  voice  was  gentle,  slow  and  relentless. 
There  was  still  a  reflection  in  her  eyes  of  the  tenderness 
which  had  been  there  as  she  had  soothed  her  child  to  sleep. 
"As  time  goes  on,  John  is  bound  to  get  worse.  The  risk 
will  be  greater  every  week." 

" Oh,  pshaw ! "  cried  her  father.  "No  such  thing !  You're 
just  scaring  yourself  over  nothing  at  all!" 

"Doctor  Lake  didn't  think  I  was."  Lake  was  the  big 
child  specialist  in  whose  care  Edith's  children  had  been 
for  years.  "I  talked  to  him  to-day  on  the  telephone,  and 
he  said  we  should  get  John  out  of  the  house." 

Roger  heartily  damned  Doctor  Lake! 

"It's  easy  to  find  a  good  home  for  the  boy,"  Edith  went 
on  quietly,  "close  by,  if  you  like — in  some  respectable 
family  that  will  be  only  too  thankful  to  take  in  a  boarder." 

"How  about  the  danger  to  that  family's  children?" 
Roger  asked  malignantly. 

"Very  well,  father,  do  as  you  please.  Take  any  risk 
you  want  to." 

"I'm  taking  no  risk,"  he  retorted.  "If  there  were  any 
risk  they  would  have  told  me — Allan  and  Deborah  would, 
I  mean." 

"They  wouldn't!"  burst  from  Edith  with  a  vehemence 
which  startled  him.  "They'd  take  the  same  risk  for  my 
children  they  would  for  any  street  urchin  in  town!  All 
children  are  the  same  in  their  eyes — and  if  you  feel  as  they 
do—" 

"I  don't  feel  as  they  do!" 

"Don't  you?  Then  I'm  telling  you  that  Doctor  Lake 
said  there  was  very  serious  risk — every  day  this  boy 
remains  in  the  house!"  Roger  rose  angrily  from  his  chair: 

"So  you  want  me  to  turn  him  out!    To-night!" 


208  HIS  FAMILY 

"No,  I  want  you  to  wait  a  few  days — until  we  can  find 
him  a  decent  home." 

"All  right,  I  won't  do  it!" 

"Very  well,  father — it's  your  house,  not  mine." 

For  a  few  moments  longer  she  sat  at  her  sewing,  while 
her  father  walked  the  floor.  Then  abruptly  she  rose,  her 
eyes  brimming  with  tears,  and  left  the  room.  And  he 
heard  a  sob  as  she  went  upstairs. 

"Now  she'll  shut  herself  up  with  her  children,"  he 
reflected  savagely,  "and  hold  the  fort  till  I  come  to  terms!" 
Rather  than  risk  a  hair  on  their  heads,  Edith  would  turn 
the  whole  world  out  of  doors!  He  thought  of  Deborah 
and  he  groaned.  She  would  have  to  be  told  of  this;  and 
when  she  was,  what  a  row  there  would  be!  For  Johnny 
was  one  of  her  family.  He  glanced  at  the  clock.  She'd 
be  coming  home  soon.  Should  he  tell  her?  Not  to-night ! 
Just  for  one  evening  he'd  had  enough! 

He  picked  up  the  book  he  had  meant  to  read — Stod- 
dard's  "  Lectures  on  Japan."  And  Roger  snorted  wrath- 
fully.  By  George,  how  he'd  like  to  go  to  Japan — or  to 
darkest  Africa!  Anywhere! 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

BUT  later  in  the  evening,  when  Allan  and  Deborah 
came  in,  Roger,  who  in  the  meantime  had  had  a  good  hour 
in  Japan  and  was  somewhat  relaxed  and  soothed,  decided 
at  once  this  was  the  time  to  tell  her  and  have  done 
with  it.  For  Deborah  was  flushed  with  triumph,  the 
meeting  had  been  a  huge  success.  Cooper  Union  had  been 
packed  to  the  walls,  with  an  overflow  meeting  out  on  the 
street;  thousands  of  dollars  had  been  pledged  and  some  big 
politicians  had  promised  support;  and  men  and  women, 
rich  and  poor,  had  volunteered  their  services.  She  started 
to  tell  him  about  it,  but  noticed  his  troubled  expression 
and  asked  him  what  was  on  his  mind. 

"Oh,  nothing  tremendous,"  Roger  said.  "I  hate  to 
be  any  damper  to-night.  I  hadn't  meant  to  tell  you  to 
night — but  I  think  I  will  now,  for  you  look  as  though  you 
could  find  a  solution  for  anything." 

"Then  I  must  look  like  an  idiot,"  his  daughter  said 
good-humoredly.  "What  is  it?"  she  demanded. 

"It's  about  John."    Her  countenance  changed. 

"Oh.    Is  he  worse?" 

"Edith  thinks  he  is — and  she  says  it's  not  safe." 

"I  see — she  wants  him  out  of  the  house.  Tell  me  what 
she  said  to  you."  As  he  did  so  she  listened  intently,  and 
turning  to  Allan  at  the  end,  "What  do  you  say  to  this, 
Allan?"  she  asked.  "Is  there  any  real  risk  to  the  chil 
dren?" 

"A  little,"  he  responded.  "As  much  as  they  take 
every  day  in  the  trolley  going  to  school." 

"They  never  go  in  the  trolley,"  Deborah  answered 
dryly.  " They  always  go  on  the  top  of  the  'bus."  She  was 

209 


210  HIS  FAMILY 

silent  for  a  moment.  "Well,  there's  no  use  discussing  it. 
If  Edith  feels  that  way,  John  must  go.  The  house  won't 
be  livable  till  he  does." 

Roger  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  He  felt  both  relieved 
and  disappointed.  "  John's  only  one  of  thousands  to  her," 
he  told  himself  aggrievedly.  "He  isn't  close  to  her,  she 
hasn't  room,  she  has  a  whole  mass  meeting  in  her  head. 
But  I  haven't,  by  George,  I  like  the  boy — and  I'm  the  one 
who  will  have  to  tell  him  to  pack  up  and  leave  the  house! 
Isn't  it  the  very  devil,  how  things  all  come  back  on  me?" 

"Look  here,  father,"  Deborah  said,  "suppose  you  let 
me  manage  this."  And  Roger's  heavy  visage  cleared. 

"You  mean  you'll  tell  him?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "and  he'll  understand  it  perfectly. 
I  think  he  has  been  expecting  it.  I  have,  for  a  good  many 
weeks,"  she  added,  with  some  bitterness.  "And  I  know 
some  people  who  will  be  glad  enough  to  take  him  in.  I'll 
see  that  he's  made  comfortable.  Only —  "  her  face  clouded. 

"It  has  meant  a  lot  to  him,  being  here,"  her  father  put 
in  gruffly. 

"Oh,  John's  used  to  getting  knocks  in  this  world." 
Her  quiet  voice  grew  hard  and  stern.  "I  wasn't  thinking 
of  John  just  now.  What  frightens  me  at  times  like  this  is 
Edith,"  she  said  slowly.  "No,  not  just  Edith — mother 
hood.  I  see  it  in  so  many  mothers  these  days — in  the 
women  downtown,  in  their  fight  for  their  children  against 
all  other  children  on  earth.  It's  the  hardest  thing  we  have 
to  do — to  try  to  make  them  see  and  feel  outside  of  their 
own  small  tenement  homes — and  help  each  other — pull 
together.  They  can't  see  it's  their  only  chance!  And  all 
because  of  this  mother  love!  It's  so  blind  sometimes, 
like  an  animal!"  She  broke  off,  and  for  a  moment  she 
seemed  to  be  looking  deep  into  herself.  "And  I  suppose 
we?re  all  like  that,  we  women  are,"  she  muttered,  "when 
we  marry  and  have  children.  If  the  pinch  is  ever  hard 
enough — " 


HIS  FAMILY  211 

"You  wouldn't  be,"  said  Allan.  And  a  sudden  sharp 
uneasiness  came  into  Roger's  mind. 

"When  are  you  two  to  be  married?"  he  asked,  without 
stopping  to  think.  And  at  once  he  regretted  his  question. 
With  a  quick  impatient  look  at  him,  Allan  bent  over  a 
book  on  the  table. 

"I  don't  know,"  Deborah  answered.  "Next  spring,  I 
hope."  The  frown  was  still  on  her  face. 

"Don't  make  it  too  long,"  said  her  father  brusquely. 
He  left  them  and  went  up  to  bed. 

Deborah  sat  motionless.  She  wished  Allan  would  go, 
for  she  guessed  what  was  coming  and  did  not  feel  equal 
to  it  to-night.  All  at  once  she  felt  tired  and  unnerved  from 
her  long  exciting  evening.  If  only  she  could  let  go  of  her 
self  and  have  a  good  cry.  She  locked  her  hands  together 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  impatience.  He  was  still  at 
the  table,  his  back  was  turned. 

"Don't  you  know  I  love  you?"  she  was  thinking  fiercely. 
"Can't  you  see  it — haven't  you  seen  it — growing,  growing 
—day  after  day?  But  I  don't  want  you  here  to-night! 
Why  can't  you  see  you  must  leave  me  alone?  Now! 
This  minute!" 

He  turned  and  came  over  in  front  of  her,  and  stood 
looking  steadily  down. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  "how  well  you  understand 
yourself." 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  muttered.  With  a  sudden  twitch 
ing  of  her  lip  she  looked  quickly  up  at  him.  "Go  on, 
Allan— let's  talk  it  all  over  now  if  you  must!" 

"Not  if  you  feel  like  that,"  he  said.  At  his  tone  of  dis 
pleasure  she  caught  his  hand. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  want  to!  Please!"  she  cried.  "It's  better 
— really!  Believe  me,  it  is — " 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  his  wide  generous  mouth  set 
hard,  and  then  in  a  tone  as  sharp  as  hers  he  demanded, 


212  HIS  FAMILY 

"Are  you  sure  you'll  marry  me  next  spring?  Are  you 
sure  you  hope  you  will  next  spring?  Are  you  sure  this 
sister  of  yours  in  the  house,  on  your  nerves  day  and  night, 
with  this  blind  narrow  motherhood,  this  motherhood  which 
frightens  you — isn't  frightening  you  too  much?" 

"No — a  little — but  not  too  much."  Her  deep  sweet 
voice  was  trembling.  "You're  the  one  who  frightens  me. 
If  you  only  knew!  When  you  come  like  this — with  all 
you've  done  for  me  back  of  you — " 

"Deborah!    Don't  be  a  fool!" 

"Oh,  I  know  you  say  you've  done  nothing,  except  what 
you've  been  glad  to  do!  You  love  me  like  that!  But 
it's  just  that  love!  Giving  up  all  your  practice  little  by 
little,  and  your  reputation  uptown — all  for  the  sake  of 
me,  Allan,  me!" 

"  You're  wrong,"  he  replied.  "  Compared  to  what  I'm 
getting,  I've  given  up  nothing!  Can't  you  see?  You're 
just  as  narrow  in  your  school  as  Edith  is  right  here  in  her 
home !  You  look  upon  my  hospital  as  a  mere  annex  to  your 
schools,  when  the  truth  of  it  is  that  the  work  down  there  is  a 
chance  I've  wanted  all  my  life !  Can't  you  understand,"  he 
cried,  "that  instead  of  your  being  in  debt  to  me  it's  I  who 
am  in  debt  to  you?  You're  a  suffragist,  eh,  a  feminist — 
whatever  you  want  to  call  it !  All  right !  So  you  want  to  be 
equal  with  man!  Then,  for  God's  sake,  why  not  begin? 
Feel  equal!  I'm  no  annex  to  you,  nor  you  to  me!  It  has 
happened,  thank  God,  that  our  work  fits  in — each  with 
the  other!" 

He  stopped  and  stared,  seemed  to  shake  himself;  he 
walked  the  floor.  And  when  he  turned  back  his  expression 
had  changed. 

"Look  here,  Deborah,"  he  asked,  with  an  appealing 
humorous  smile,  "will  you  tell  me  what  I'm  driving  at?" 

Deborah  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  and  her 
laughter  thrilled  with  relief.  "How  sure  I  feel  now  that 
I  love  him,"  she  thought. 


HIS  FAMILY  213 

" You've  proved  I  owe  you  nothing!"  she  cried.  "And 
that  men  and  women  of  our  kind  can  work  on  splendidly 
side  by  side,  and  never  bother  our  poor  little  heads  about 
anything  else — even  marriage!" 

"We  will,  though!"  he  retorted.  The  next  moment  she 
was  in  his  arms.  "Now,  Deborah,  listen  to  reason,  child. 
Why  can't  you  marry  me  right  away?" 

"Because,"  she  said,  "when  I  marry  you  I'm  going  to 
have  you  all  to  myself — for  weeks  and  weeks  as  we  planned 
before !  And  afterwards,  with  a  wonderful  start — and  with 
the  war  over,  work  less  hard  and  the  world  less  dark  and 
gloomy — we're  going  to  find  that  at  last  we  can  live! 
But  this  winter  it  couldn't  be  like  that.  This  winter  we've 
got  to  go  on  with  our  work — and  without  any  more  silly 
worries  or  talk  about  whether  or  not  we're  in  love.  For 
we  are!"  Her  upturned  face  was  close  to  his,  and  for  some 
moments  nothing  was  said,  "Well?"  she  asked.  "Are 
you  satisfied?" 

"No — I  want  to  get  married.  But  it  is  now  a  quarter 
past  one.  And  I'm  your  physician.  Go  straight  to  bed." 

She  stopped  him  a  minute  at  the  front  door: 

"Are  you  sure,  absolutely,  you  understand?" 

He  told  her  he  did.  But  as  he  walked  home  he  reflected. 
How  tense  she  had  been  in  the  way  she  had  talked.  Yes, 
the  long  strain  was  telling.  "Why  was  she  so  anxious  to 
get  me  out  of  the  house,"  he  asked,  "when  we  were  alone 
for  the  first  time  in  days?  And  why,  if  she's  really  sure  of 
her  love,  does  she  hate  the  idea  that  she's  in  my  debt?" 

He  walked  faster,  for  the  night  was  cold.  And  there 
was  a  chill,  too,  in  this  long  waiting  game. 

Roger  heard  Deborah  come  up  to  bed,  and  he  wondered 
what  they  had  been  talking  about.  Of  the  topic  he  him 
self  had  broached — each  other,  love  and  marriage? 

"Possibly — for  a  minute  or  two — but  no  more,"  he 
grumbled.  "  For  don't  forget  there's  work  to  discuss,  there's 


214  HIS  FAMILY 

that  mass  meeting  still  on  her  mind.  And  God  knows  a 
woman's  mind  is  never  any  child's  play.  But  when  you 
load  a  mass  meeting  on  top — " 

Here  he  yawned  long  and  noisily.  His  head  ached,  he 
felt  sore  and  weak — "from  the  evening's  entertainment 
my  other  daughter  gave  me."  No,  he  was  through,  he 
had  had  enough.  They  could  settle  things  to  suit  them 
selves.  Let  Edith  squander  her  money  on  frills,  the  more 
expensive  the  better.  Let  her  turn  poor  Johnny  out  of 
the  house,  let  her  give  full  play  to  her  motherhood.  And 
if  that  scared  Deborah  out  of  marrying,  let  her  stay  single 
and  die  an  old  maid.  He  had  worried  enough  for  his 
family.  He  wanted  a  little  peace  in  his  house. 

Drowsily  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  a  picture  came  into  his 
mind  of  the  city  as  he  had  seen  it  only  a  few  nights  before. 
It  had  been  so  cool,  so  calm  and  still.  At  dusk  he  had 
been  in  the  building  of  the  great  tower  on  Madison  Square; 
and  when  he  had  finished  his  business  there,  on  an  impulse 
he  had  gone  up  to  the  top,  and  through  a  wide  low  window 
had  stood  a  few  moments  looking  down.  A  soft  light  snow 
was  falling;  and  from  high  up  in  the  storm,  through  the 
silent  whirling  flakes,  he  had  looked  far  down  upon  lights 
below,  in  groups  and  clusters,  dancing  lines,  between  tall 
phantom  buildings,  blurred  and  ghostly,  faint,  unreal. 
From  all  that  bustle  and  fever  of  life  there  had  risen 
to  him  barely  a  sound.  And  the  town  had  seemed  small 
and  lonely,  a  little  glow  in  the  infinite  dark,  fulfilling 
its  allotted  place  for  its  moment  in  eternity.  Suddenly 
from  close  over  his  head  like  a  brazen  voice  out  of  the  sky, 
hard  and  deafening  and  clear,  the  great  bell  had  boomed 
the  hour.  Then  again  had  come  the  silence,  and  the  cool, 
soft,  whirling  snow. 

Like  a  dream  it  faded  all  away,  and  with  a  curious  smile 
on  his  face  presently  Roger  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

AND  now  he  felt  the  approach  at  last  of  another  season 
of  quiet,  one  of  those  uneventful  times  which  come  in  family 
histories.  As  he  washed  and  dressed  for  dinner,  one  night 
a  little  later,  he  thought  with  satisfaction,  "How  nicely 
things  are  smoothing  out."  His  dressing  for  dinner,  as  a 
rule,  consisted  in  changing  his  low  wing  collar  and  his 
large  round  detachable  cuffs;  but  to-night  he  changed  his 
cravat  as  well,  from  a  black  to  a  pearl  gray  one.  He 
hoped  the  whole  winter  would  be  pearl  gray. 

The  little  storm  which  Edith  had  raised  over  John's 
presence  in  the  house  had  been  allayed.  Deborah  had 
talked  to  John,  and  had  moved  him  with  his  belongings 
to  a  comfortable  sunny  room  in  the  small  but  neat  apart 
ment  of  a  Scotch  family  nearby.  And  John  had  been  so 
sensible.  "Oh,  I'm  fine,  thank  you,"  he  had  answered 
simply,  when  in  the  office  Roger  had  asked  him  about  his 
new  home.  So  that  incident  was  closed.  Already  Edith 
was  disinfecting  John's  old  room  to  her  heart's  content, 
for  George  was  to  occupy  it  now.  She  was  having  the 
woodwork  repainted  and  a  new  paper  put  on  the  walls. 
She  had  already  purchased  a  small  new  rug,  and  a  bed  and 
a  bureau  and  one  easy  chair,  and  was  making  a  pair  of 
fresh  pretty  curtains.  All  right,  let  her  do  it — if  only  there 
could  be  peace  in  the  house. 

With  his  cravat  adjusted  and  his  thick-curling  silver 
hair  trim  from  having  just  been  cut  by  "Louis  "  over  at 
the  Brevoort,  Roger  went  comfortably  down  to  his  dinner. 
Edith  greeted  him  with  a  smile. 

"Deborah's  dining  out,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,"  he  replied,  "so  much  the  better.  We'll 

215 


216  HIS  FAMILY 

go  right  in — I'm  hungry.  And  we'll  have  the  evening  to 
ourselves.  No  big  ideas  nor  problems.  Eh,  daughter?" 
He  slipped  his  hand  in  hers,  and  she  gave  it  a  little  affec 
tionate  squeeze.  With  John  safely  out  of  the  way,  and  not 
only  the  health  of  her  children  but  their  proper  schooling 
assured,  Edith  was  herself  again,  placid,  sweet  and  kindly. 
And  dinner  that  night  was  a  cheerful  meal.  La£er,  in  the 
living  room,  as  Roger  contentedly  lit  his  cigar,  Edith  gave 
an  appreciative  sniff. 

"You  do  smoke  such  good  cigars,  father,"  she  said, 
smiling  over  her  needle.  And  glancing  up  at  her  daughter, 
" Betsy,  dear,"  she  added,  "go  and  get  your  grandfather's 
evening  paper." 

In  quiet  perusal  of  the  news  he  spent  the  first  part  of 
his  evening.  The  war  did  not  bother  him  to-night,  for 
there  had  come  a  lull  in  the  fighting,  as  though  even  war 
could  know  its  place.  And  times  were  better  over  here. 
As,  skipping  all  news  from  abroad  his  eye  roved  over  the 
pages  for  what  his  business  depended  upon,  Roger  began 
to  find  it  now.  The  old  familiar  headliness  were  reappear 
ing  side  by  side — high  finance  exposures,  graft,  the  antics 
and  didos  cut  up  by  the  sons  and  daughters  of  big  mil 
lionaires;  and  after  them  in  cheery  succession  the  Yale- 
Harvard  game,  a  new  man  for  the  Giants,  a  new  college 
building  for  Cornell,  a  new  city  plan  for  Seattle,  a  woman 
senator  in  Arizona  and  in  Chicago  a  "sporting  mayor." 
In  brief,  all  over  the  U.  S.  A.,  men  and  women  old  and 
new  had  risen  up,  to  power,  fame,  notoriety,  whatever  you 
chose  to  call  it.  Men  and  women?  Hardly.  "Children" 
was  the  better  word.  But  the  thought  did  not  trouble 
Roger  to-night.  He  had  instead  a  heartening  sense  of 
the  youth,  the  wild  exuberance,  the  boundless  vigor  in  his 
native  land.  He  could  feel  it  rising  once  again.  Life  was 
soon  to  go  on  as  before;  people  were  growing  hungry 
to  see  the  names  of  their  countrymen  back  in  the  headlines 
where  they  belonged.  And  Roger's  business  was  picking 


HIS  FAMILY  217 

up.  He  was  not  sure  of  the  figure  of  his  deficit  last  week — • 
he  had  always  been  vague  on  the  book-keeping  side — but 
he  knew  it  was  down  considerably. 

When  Betsy  and  George  had  gone  to  bed,  Roger  put 
down  his  paper. 

"Look  here,  Edith,"  he  proposed,  "how'd  you  like  me 
to  read  aloud  while  you  sew?"  She  looked  up  with  a 
smile  of  pleased  surprise. 

"  Why,  father  dear,  I'd  love  it."  At  once,  she  bent  over 
her  needle  again,  so  that  if  there  were  any  awkwardness 
attending  this  small  change  in  their  lives  it  did  not  reveal 
itself  in  her  pretty  countenance.  "What  shall  we  read?" 
she  affably  asked. 

"  I've  got  a  capital  book,"  he  replied.  "  It's  about  travel 
in  Japan." 

"I'd  like  nothing  better,"  Edith  replied.  And  with  a 
slight  glow  of  pride  in  himself  Roger  took  his  book  in  hand. 
The  experiment  was  a  decided  success.  He  read  again  the 
next  night  and  the  next,  while  Edith  sat  at  her  sewing. 
And  so  this  hour's  companionship,  from  nine  to  ten  in  the 
evening,  became  a  regular  custom — just  one  hour  and  no 
more,  which  Roger  spent  with  his  daughter,  intimately 
and  pleasantly.  Yes,  life  was  certainly  smoothing  out. 

Edith's  three  older  children  had  been  reinstated  in 
school.  And  although  at  first,  when  deprived  of  their  aid, 
she  had  found  it  nearly  impossible  to  keep  her  twp  small 
boys  amused  and  give  them  besides  the  four  hours  a  day  of 
fresh  air  they  required,  she  had  soon  met  this  trouble  by 
the  same  simple  process  as  before.  Of  her  few  possessions 
still  unsold,  she  had  disposed  of  nearly  all,  and  with  a  small 
fund  thus  secured  she  had  sent  for  Hannah  to  return.  The 
house  was  running  beautifully. 

Christmas,  too,  was  drawing  near.  And  though  Roger 
knew  that  in  Edith's  heart  was  a  cold  dread  of  this  season, 
she  bravely  kept  it  to  herself;  and  she  set  about  so  de 
terminedly  to  make  a  merry  holiday,  that  her  father  ad- 


218  HIS  FAMILY 

miring  her  pluck  drew  closer  still  to  his  daughter.  He 
entered  into  her  Christmas  plans  and  into  all  the  conspira 
cies  which  were  whispered  about  the  house.  Great  se 
crets,  anxious  consultations,  found  in  him  a  ready  listener. 
So  passed  three  blessed  quiet  weeks,  and  he  had  high 
hopes  for  the  winter. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IF  there  were  any  cloud  upon  his  horizon,  it  was  the 
thought  of  Laura.  She  had  barely  been  to  the  house 
since  Edith  had  come  back  to  town;  and  at  times,  espe 
cially  in  the  days  when  things  had  looked  dark  for  Roger, 
he  had  caught  himself  reproaching  this  giddy-gaddy 
youngest  child,  so  engrossed  in  her  small "  menage"  that 
apparently  she  could  not  spare  a  thought  for  her  widowed 
sister.  Laura  on  her  return  from  abroad  had  brought  as 
a  gift  for  Edith  a  mourning  gown  from  Paris,  a  most 
alluring  creation — so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  Edith  had 
felt  it  simply  indecent,  insulting,  and  had  returned  it  to 
her  sister  with  a  stilted  note  of  thanks.  But  Roger  did 
not  know  of  this.  There  were  so  many  ways,  he  thought, 
in  which  Laura  might  have  been  nice  to  Edith.  She  had  a 
gorgeous  limousine  in  which  she  might  so  easily  have  come 
and  taken  her  sister  off  on  little  trips  uptown.  But  no, 
she  kept  her  car  to  herself.  And  from  her  small  apartment, 
where  a  maid  whom  she  had  brought  from  Rome  dressed 
her  several  times  each  day,  that  limousine  rushed  her 
noiselessly  forth,  gay  and  wild  as  ever,  immaculate  and 
elegant,  radiant  and  very  rich.  To  what  places  did  she 
go?  What  new  friends  was  she  making?  What  was  Laura 
up  to? 

He  did  not  like  her  manner,  one  evening  when  she  came 
to  the  house.  As  he  helped  her  off  with  her  cloak,  a  sleek 
supple  leopard  skin  which  fitted  her  figure  like  a  glove,  he 
asked, 

"  Where's  Hal  this  evening?  "   And  she  answered  lightly, 
"Oh,  don't  ask  me  what  he  does  with  himself." 
"You  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  Edith,  with  quiet  dis- 

219 


220  HIS  FAMILY 

approval,  "that  he  is  rushed  to  death  this  year  with  all 
this  business  from  the  war." 

"Yes,  it's  business,"  Laura  replied,  as  she  deftly 
smoothed  and  patted  her  soft,  abundant,  reddish  hair. 
"And  it's  war,  too,"  she  added. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  her  father  asked.  He  knew  what 
she  meant,  war  with  her  husband.  But  before  Laura 
could  answer  him,  Edith  cut  in  hastily,  for  two  of  her 
children  were  present.  At  dinner  she  turned  the  talk  to 
the  war.  But  even  on  this  topic,  Laura's  remarks  were 
disturbing.  She  did  not  consider  the  war  wholly  bad — 
by  no  means,  it  had  many  good  points.  It  was  clearing 
away  a  lot  of  old  rubbish,  customs,  superstitions  and 
institutions  out  of  date.  "Musty  old  relics,"  she  called 
them.  She  spoke  as  though  repeating  what  someone  else 
had  told  her.  Laura  with  her  chicken's  mind  could  never 
have  thought  it  all  out  by  herself.  When  asked  what 
she  meant,  she  was  smilingly  vague,  with  a  glance  at 
Edith's  youngsters.  But  she  threw  out  hints  about  the 
church  and  even  Christianity,  as  though  it  were  falling 
to  pieces.  She  spoke  of  a  second  Renaissance,  "a  glorious 
pagan  era"  coming.  And  then  she  exploded  a  little  bomb 
by  inquiring  of  Edith, 

"What  do  you  think  the  girls  over  there  are  going  to  do 
for  husbands,  with  half  the  marriageable  men  either  killed 
or  hopelessly  damaged?  They're  not  going  to  be  nuns 
all  their  lives!" 

Again  her  sister  cut  her  off,  and  the  rest  of  the  brief 
evening  was  decidedly  awkward.  Yes,  she  was  changing, 
growing  fast.  And  Roger  did  not  like  it.  Here  she  was 
spending  money  like  water,  absorbed  in  her  pleasures, 
having  no  baby,  apparently  at  loose  ends  with  her  husband, 
and  through  it  all  so  cocksure  of  herself  and  her  out 
rageous  views  about  war,  and  smiling  about  them  with 
such  an  air,  and  in  her  whole  manner  such  a  tone  of  amused 
superiority.  She  talked  about  a  world  for  the  strong, 


HIS  FAMILY  221 

bits  of  gabble  from  Nietzsche  and  that  sort  of  rot;  she 
spoke  blithely  of  a  Rome  reborn,  the  "  Wings  of  the  Eagles  " 
heard  again.  This  part  of  it  she  had  taken,  no  doubt, 
from  her  new  Italian  friend,  her  husband's  shrapnel  part 
ner. 

Pshaw!    What  was  Laura  up  to? 

But  that  was  only  one  evening.  It  was  not  repeated, 
another  month  went  quickly  by,  and  Roger  had  soon 
shaken  it  from  him,  for  he  had  troubles  enough  at  home. 
One  daughter  at  a  time,  he  had  thought.  And  as  the  dark 
clouds  close  above  him  had  cleared,  the  other  cloud  too 
had  drifted  away,  until  it  was  small,  just  on  the  horizon, 
far  away  from  Roger's  house.  What  was  Laura  up  to? 
He  barely  ever  thought  of  that  now. 

But  one  night  when  he  came  home,  Edith,  who  sat  in 
the  living  room  reading  aloud  to  her  smaller  boys,  gave 
him  a  significant  look  which  warned  him  something  had 
happened.  And  turning  to  take  off  his  overcoat,  in  the 
hall  he  almost  stumbled  upon  a  pile  of  hand  luggage,  two 
smart  patent  leather  bags,  a  hat  trunk  and  a  sable  cloak. 

" Hello,"  he  exclaimed.    "What's  this?    Who's  here?  " 

"Laura,"  Edith  answered.  "She's  up  in  Deborah's 
room,  I  think — they've  been  up  there  for  over  an  hour." 
Roger  looked  indignantly  in  at  his  daughter. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you,"  Edith  replied.  "They 
didn't  seem  to  need  me.  They  made  it  rather  plain,  in 
fact.  Another  quarrel,  I  presume.  She  came  into  the 
house  like  a  whirlwind,  asked  at  once  for  Deborah  and 
flew  up  to  Deborah's  room." 

"Pshaw!"  Roger  heavily  mounted  the  stairs.  He  at 
least  did  not  feel  like  flying.  A  whirlwind,  eh — a  nice 
evening  ahead ! 

Meanwhile,  in  her  room  upstairs  Deborah  sat  motion 
less,  sternly  holding  her  feelings  down,  while  in  a  tone 


222  HIS  FAMILY 

now  kindly  but  more  often  full  of  a  sharp  dismay,  she 
threw  out  question  after  question  to  Laura  who  was  walk 
ing  the  floor  in  a  quick,  feverish  sort  of  way,  with  gestures 
half  hysterical,  her  voice  bursting  with  emotions  of  min 
gled  fright  and  rage. 

"No,  this  time  it's  divorce!"  she  declared,  at  the  end 
of  her  first  outburst,  in  which  she  had  told  in  fragments 
of  her  husband's  double  life.  "I've  stood  it  long  enough! 
I'm  through!" 

"You  mean  you  don't  care  for  him,"  Deborah  said. 
She  was  fighting  for  time  to  think  it  out.  "You  want  a 
divorce.  Very  well,  Laura  dear — but  how  do  you  think 
you  are  going  to  get  it?  The  laws  are  rather  strict  in 
this  state.  They  allow  but  one  cause.  Have  you  any 
proofs?" 

"No,  I  haven't — but  I  don't  need  any  proofs!  He 
wants  it  as  badly  as  I  do!  Wait — I'll  give  you  his  very 
words!"  Laura's  face  grew  white  with  fury.  "'It's  en 
tirely  up  to  you,  Sweetie' — the  beast! — 'You  can  have  any 
kind  of  divorce  you  like.  You  can  let  me  bring  suit  on  the 
quiet  or  you  can  try  to  fight  me  in  court,  climb  up  into  the 
witness  chair  in  front  of  the  reporters  and  tell  them  all 
about  yourself!'  " 

"  Your  husband  is  to  bring  suit  against  you?"  Deborah's 
voice  was  loud  and  harsh.  "For  God's  sake,  Laura,  what 
do  you  mean?" 

"Mean?  I  mean  that  he  has  proofs!  He  has  used  a 
detective,  the  mean  little  cur,  and  he's  treating  me  like 
the  dirt  under  his  feet!  Just  as  though  it  were  one  thing 
for  a  man,  and  another — quite — for  a  woman!  He  even 
had  the  nerve  to  be  mad,  to  get  on  a  high  horse,  call  me 
names !  Turn  me ! — 'turn  me  out  on  the  street ! "  Deborah 
winced  as  though  from  a  blow.  "  Oh,  it  was  funny,  funny ! " 
Laura  was  almost  sobbing  now. 

"Stop,  this  minute!"  Deborah  said.  "You  say  that 
you've  been  doing — what  he  has?"  she  demanded. 


HIS  FAMILY  223 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  What  do  you  know  about  it?  Are 
you  going  to  turn  against  me,  too?" 

"I  am — pretty  nearly — " 

"Oh,  good  God!"  Laura  tossed  up  her  hands  and  went 
on  with  her  walking. 

"Quiet!    Please  try  to  be  clear  and  explain." 

"Explain— to  you?  How  can  I?  You  don't  under 
stand—you  know  nothing  about  it — all  you  know  about 
is  schools!  You're  simply  a  nun  when  it  comes  to  this. 
I  see  it  now — I  didn't  before — I  thought  you  a  modern 
woman — with  your  mind  open  to  new  ideas.  But  it  isn't, 
it  seems,  when  it  comes  to  a  pinch — it's  shut  as  tight  as 
Edith's  is—" 

"Yes,  tight!" 

"Thank  you  very  much!  Then  for  the  love  of  Heaven 
will  you  kindly  leave  me  alone!  I'll  have  a  talk  with 
father!" 

"You  will  not  have  a  talk  with  father—  " 

"I  most  certainly  will— and  he'll  understand!  He's  a 
man,  at  least — and  he  led  a  man's  life  before  he  was 
married!" 

"Laura!" 

"  You  can't  see  it  in  him — but  I  can!" 

"You'll  say  not  a  word  to  him,  not  one  word!  He  has 
had  enough  this  year  as  it  is!" 

"Has  he?  Then  I'm  sorry!  If  you  were  any  help  to 
me — instead  of  acting  like  a  nun — " 

"Will  you  please  stop  talking  like  a  fool?" 

"I'm  not!  I'm  speaking  the  truth  and  you  know  it! 
You  know  no  more  about  love  like  mine  than  a  nun  of  the 
middle  ages!  You  needn't  tell  me  about  Allan  Baird. 
You  think  you're  in  love  with  him,  don't  you?  Well 
then,  I'll  tell  you  that  you're  not — your  love  is  the  kind 
that  can  wait  for  years — because  it's  cold,  it's  cold,  it's 
cold — it's  all  in  your  mind  and  your  reason!  And  so  I  say 
you're  no  help  to  me  now!  Here — look  at  yourself  in 


224  HIS  FAMILY 

the  glass  over  there!  You're  just  plain  angry — fright 
ened!" 

"Yes — I  am — I'm  frightened."  While  she  strove  to 
think  clearly,  to  form  some  plan,  she  let  her  young  sister 
talk  rapidly  on: 

"I  know  you  are!  And  you  can't  be  fair!  You're  like 
nearly  all  American  women — married  or  single,  young  or 
old — you're  all  of  you  scared  to  death  about  sex — just  as 
your  Puritan  mothers  were!  And  you  leave  it  alone — you 
keep  it  down — you  never  give  it  a  chance — you're  afraid! 
But  I'm  not  afraid — and  I'm  living  my  life!  And  let  me 
tell  you  I'm  not  alone!  There  are  hundreds  and  thousands 
doing  the  same — right  here  in  New  York  City  to-night! 
It's  been  so  abroad  for  years  and  years — in  Rome  and 
Berlin,  in  Paris  and  London — and  now,  thank  God,  it 
has  come  over  here!  If  our  husbands  can  do  it,  why  can't 
we?  And  we  are — we're  starting — it's  come  with  the  war ! 
You  think  war  is  hell  and  nothing  else,  don't  you — but 
you're  wrong!  It's  not  only  killing  men — it's  killing  a  lot 
of  hypocrisies  too — it's  giving  a  jolt  to  marriage!  You'll 
see  what  the  women  will  do  soon  enough — when  there 
aren't  enough  men  any  longer — " 

"  Suppose  you  stop  this  tirade  and  tell  me  exactly  what 
you've  done,"  Deborah  interrupted.  A  simple  course  of 
action  had  just  flashed  into  her  mind. 

"All  right,  I  will.  I'm  not  ashamed.  I've  given  you 
this  '  tirade'  to  show  you  exactly  how  I  feel — that  it's  not 
any  question  of  sin  or  guilt  or  any  musty  old  rubbish 
like  that!  I  know  I'm  right!  I  know  just  what  I'm 
doing!" 

"Who's  the  man?    That  Italian?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Right  here  in  New  York." 

"Does  he  mean  to  stand  by  you?" 

"Of  course  he  does." 


HIS  FAMILY  225 

"Will  he  marry  you,  Laura?" 

"Yes,  he  will — the  minute  I'm  free  from  my  beast  of  a 
husband!  " 

"And  your  husband  will  keep  his  suit  quiet,  you  said, 
if  you  agree  not  to  fight  him.7' 

"Yes." 

Deborah  rose  abruptly. 

"Then  will  you  stay  right  here  to-night,  and  leave  this 
matter  to  me?"  she  asked. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"See  your  husband." 

"What  for?    When?" 

"To-night,  if  I  can.    I  want  to  be  sure." 

Laura  looked  for  the  moment  nonplussed. 

"And  what  of  my  wishes?"  she  inquired. 

"Your  wishes,"  said  Deborah  steadily.  "You  want 
a  divorce,  don't  you — so  do  I.  And  you  want  it  quiet — 
and  so  do  I.  I  want  it  so  hard  that  I  want  to  make  sure." 
Deborah's  tone  was  kinder  now,  and  she  came  over  close 
to  her  sister.  "Look  here,  Laura,  if  I've  been  hard,  for 
give  me — please — and  let  me  help.  I'm  not  so  narrow  as 
you  think.  I've  been  through  a  good  deal  of  this  before — 
downtown,  I  mean,  with  girls  in  my  school.  They  come 
to  me,  we  have  long  talks.  Maybe  I  am  a  nun — as  you  say 
— but  I'm  one  with  a  confessional.  Not  for  sins,"  she 
added,  as  Laura  looked  up  angrily.  "Sins  don't  interest 
me  very  much.  But  troubles  do.  And  heaven  knows  that 
marriage  is  one,"  she  said  with  a  curious  bitterness.  "And 
when  it  has  failed  and  there's  no  love  left — as  in  your  case 
— I'm  for  divorce.  Only — "  her  wide  sensitive  lips  quiv 
ered  just  a  little,  "I'm  sorry  it  had  to  come  like  this.  But  I 
love  you,  dear,  and  I  want  to  help,  I  want  to  see  you 
safely  through.  And  while  I'm  doing  it,  if  we  can,  I  want 
to  keep  dad  out  of  it — at  least  until  it's  settled."  She 
paused  a  moment.  "So  if  you  agree,  I'll  go  to  your  hus 
band.  I  want  to  be  sure,  absolutely,  just  what  we  can 


226  HIS  FAMILY 

count  on.  And  until  I  come  back,  stay  here  in  my  room. 
You  don't  want  to  talk  to  father  and  Edith — " 

"Most  certainly  not!"    Laura  muttered. 

"Good.  Then  stay  here  until  I  return.  I'll  send  you 
up  some  supper." 

"I  don't  want  any,  thank  you." 

Laura  went  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  while  her 
sister  finished  dressing. 

"It's  decent  of  you,  Deborah."  Her  voice  was  muffled 
and  relaxed.  "I  wasn't  fair,"  she  added.  "I'm  sorry  for 
some  of  the  things  I  said." 

"About  me  and  marriage?"  Deborah  looked  at  herself 
in  the  glass  in  a  peculiar  searching  way.  A  slight  spasm 
crossed  her  features.  "I'm  not  sure  but  that  you  were 
right.  At  times  I  feel  far  from  certain,"  she  said.  Laura 
lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow,  watched  her  sister  a  mo 
ment,  dropped  back. 

"Don't  let  this  affect  you,  Deborah." 

"Oh,  don't  worry,  dearie."  And  Deborah  moved 
toward  the  door.  "My  affair  is  just  mine,  you  see,  and 
this  won't  make  any  difference." 

But  in  her  heart  she  knew  it  would.  What  an  utter 
loathing  she  had  to-night  for  all  that  people  meant  by  sex! 
Suddenly  she  was  quivering,  her  limbs  and  her  whole  body 
hot, 

"You  say  I'm  cold,"  she  was  thinking.  "Cold  toward 
Allan,  calm  and  cool,  nothing  but  mind  and  reason!  You 
say  it  means  little  to  me,  all  that !  But  if  I  had  had  trouble 
with  Allan,  would  I  have  come  running  home  to  talk? 
Wouldn't  I  have  hugged  it  tight?  And  isn't  that  love? 
What  do  you  know  of  me  and  the  life  I've  led?  Do  you 
know  how  it  feels  to  want  to  work,  to  be  something  your 
self,  without  any  man?  And  can't  that  be  a  passion? 
Have  you  had  to  live  with  Edith  here  and  see  what  mother 
hood  can  be,  what  it  can  do  to  a  woman?  And  now  you 
come  with  another  side,  just  as  narrow  as  hers,  devouring 


HIS  FAMILY  227 

everything  else  in  sight!  And  because  I'm  a  little  afraid 
of  that,  for  myself  and  all  I  want  to  do,  you  say  I  don't 
know  what  love  is !  But  I  do !  And  my  love's  worth  more 
than  yours!  It's  deeper,  richer,  it  will  last!  .  .  .  Then 
why  do  I  loathe  it  all  to-night?  .  .  .  But  I  don't,  I  only 
loathe  your  side!  .  .  .  But  yours  is  the  very  heart  of  it! 
.  .  .  All  right,  then  what  am  I  going  to  do?" 

She  was  going  slowly  down  the  stairs.    She  stopped  for 
a  moment,  frowning. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ON  the  floor  below  she  met  her  father,  who  was  coming 
out  of  his  room.  He  looked  at  her  keenly: 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Laura's  here,"  she  answered.  "Trouble  again  with 
her  husband.  Better  leave  her  alone  for  the  present — • 
she's  going  to  stay  in  my  room  for  a  while." 

"Very  well,"  her  father  grunted,  and  they  went  down 
to  dinner.  There  Deborah  was  silent,  and  Edith  did  most 
of  the  talking.  Edith,  quite  aware  of  the  fact  that  Laura 
and  all  Laura's  ways  were  in  disgrace  for  the  moment, 
and  that  she  and  her  ways  with  her  children  shone  by  the 
comparison,  was  bright  and  sweet  and  tactful.  Roger 
glanced  at  her  more  than  once,  with  approval  and  with 
gratitude  for  the  effort  she  was  making  to  smooth  over 
the  situation.  Deborah  rose  before  they  had  finished. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?"    Roger  asked. 

"Oh,  there's  something  I  have  to  attend  to — " 

"School  again  this  evening,  dear?"  inquired  Edith 
cheerfully,  but  her  sister  was  already  out  of  the  room. 
She  looked  at  her  father  with  quiet  concern.  "I'm  sorry 
she  has  to  be  out  to-night — to-night  of  all  nights,"  she 
murmured. 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  her  father.  This  eternal  school 
business  of  Deborah's  was  beginning  to  get  on  his  nerves. 
Yes,  just  a  little  on  his  nerves!  Why  couldn't  she  give  up 
one  evening,  just  one,  and  get  Laura  out  of  this  snarl  she 
was  in?  He  heard  her  at  the  telephone,  and  presently  she 
came  back  to  them. 

"Oh,  Edith,"  she  said  casually,  "don't  send  any  supper 

228 


HIS  FAMILY  229 

up  to  Laura.  She  says  she  doesn't  want  any  to-night. 
And  ask  Hannah  to  put  a  cot  in  my  room.  Will 
you?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I'll  attend  to  it." 

"  Thanks."  And  again  she  left  them.  In  silence,  when 
the  front  door  closed,  Edith  looked  at  her  father.  This 
must  be  rather  serious,  Roger  thought  excitedly.  So 
Laura  was  to  stay  all  night,  while  Deborah  gallivanted 
off  to  those  infernal  schools  of  hers!  He  had  little  joy  in 
his  paper  that  night.  The  news  of  the  world  had  such  a 
trick  of  suddenly  receding  a  million  miles  away  from  a  man 
the  minute  he  was  in  trouble.  And  Roger  was  in  trouble. 
With  each  slow  tick  of  the  clock  in  the  hall  he  grew  more 
certain  and  more  disturbed.  An  hour  passed.  The  clock 
struck  nine.  With  a  snort  he  tossed  his  paper  aside. 

"Well,  Edith,"  he  said  glumly,  "how  about  some  chess 
this  evening?"  In  answer  she  gave  him  a  quick  smile  of 
understanding  and  sympathy. 

"All  right,  father  dear."    And  she  fetched  the  board. 

But  they  had  played  only  a  short  time  when  Deborah's 
latchkey  was  heard  in  the  door.  Roger  gave  an  angry 
hitch  to  his  chair.  Soon  she  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"May  I  talk  to  you,  father?"  she  asked. 

"I  suppose  so."    Roger  scowled. 

"You'll  excuse  us,  Edith?"  she  added. 

"Oh,  assuredly,  dear."  And  Edith  rose,  looking  very 
much  hurt.  "Of  course,  if  I'm  not  needed — •" 

At  this  her  father  scowled  again.  Wiry  couldn't  Debo 
rah  show  her  sister  a  little  consideration? 

"What  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Suppose  we  go  into  the  study/'  she  said. 

He  followed  her  there  and  shut  the  door. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  from  his  big  leather  chair.  Deborah 
had  remained  standing. 

"I've  got  some  bad  news,"  she  began. 


230  HIS  FAMILY 

"What  is  it?"  he  snapped.  "School  burnt  down?" 
Savagely  he  bit  off  a  cigar. 

"I've  just  had  a  talk  with  Harold,"  she  told  him.  He 
shot  a  glance  of  surprise  and  dismay. 

"Have,  eh— what's  it  all  about?" 

"It's  about  a  divorce,"  she  answered. 

The  lighted  match  dropped  from  Roger's  hand.  He 
snatched  it  up  before  it  was  out  and  lit  his  cigar,  and 
puffing  smoke  in  a  vigilant  way  again  he  eyed  his 
daughter. 

"I've  done  what  I  could,"  she  said  painfully,  "but  they 
seem  to  have  made  up  their  minds." 

"  Then  they'll  unmake  'em,"  he  replied,  and  he  leaned 
forward  heavily.  "They'll  unmake  'em,"  he  repeated, 
in  a  thick  unnatural  tone.  "  I'm  not  a'goin'  to  hear  to 
it! "  In  a  curious  manner  his  voice  had  changed.  It 
sounded  like  that  of  a  man  in  the  mountains,  where  he  had 
been  born  and  raised.  This  thought  flashed  into  Deborah's 
mind  and  her  wide  resolute  mouth  set  hard.  It  would  be 
very  difficult. 

"I'm  afraid  this  won't  do,  father  dear.  Whether  you 
give  your  consent  or  not — " 

"Wun't,  wun't  it!  You  wait  and  see  if  it  wun't!" 
Deborah  came  close  to  him. 

"Suppose  you  wait  till  you  understand,"  she  admon 
ished  sternly. 

"All  right,  I'm  waiting,"  he  replied.  She  felt  herself 
trembling  deep  inside.  She  did  not  want  him  to  under 
stand,  any  more  than  she  must  to  induce  him  to  keep  out 
of  this  affair. 

"To  begin  with,"  she  said  steadily,  "you  will  soon  see 
yourself,  I  think,  that  they  fairly  loathe  the  sight  of  each 
other — that  there  is  no  real  marriage  left." 

"That's  fiddlesticks!"  snapped  Roger.  "Just  modern 
talk  and  new  ideas — ideas  you're  to  blame  for!  Yes,  you 
are — you  put  'em  in  her  head—  you  and  your  gabble  about 


HIS  FAMILY  231 

woman's  rights !"  He  was  angry  now.  He  was  glad  he 
was  angry.  He'd  just  begun! 

"If  you  want  me  to  leave  her  alone,"  his  daughter  cut 
in  sharply,  "just  say  so!  I'll  leave  it  all  to  you!"  And 
she  saw  him  flinch  a  little.  "What  would  be  your  idea?" 
she  asked. 

"My  idea?  She's  to  go  straight  home  and  make  up 
with  him!" 

She  hesitated.    Then  she  said: 

"Suppose  there's  another  woman." 

"Then  he's  a  beast,"  growled  Roger. 

"And  yet  you  want  her  to  live  with  him?" 

He  scowled,  he  felt  baffled,  his  mind  in  a  whirl.  And  a 
wave  of  exasperation  suddenly  swept  over  him. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  she?"  he  cried.  "Other  wives 
have  done  it — millions!  Made  a  devilish  good  success  of 
it,  too — made  new  men  of  their  husbands!  Let  her  show 
him  she's  ready  to  forgive!  That's  only  Christian,  ain't  it? 
Hard?  Of  course  it's  hard  on  her!  But  can  you  tell  me 
one  hard  thing  she  has  ever  had  to  do  in  her  life?  Hasn't 
it  been  pleasure,  pleasure  from  the  word  go?  Can't 
she  stand  something  hard?  Don't  we  all  of  us  have  to? 
I  do — God  knows — with  all  of  you!"  And  he  puffed  his 
cigar  in  a  fury.  His  daughter  smiled.  She  saw  her  chance. 

"Father,"  she  said,  in  a  low  clear  voice,  "You've  had  so 
many  troubles.  Why  not  leave  this  one  to  me?  You 
can't  help — no  matter  how  hard  you  try — you'll  only 
make  it  worse  and  worse.  And  you've  been  through  so 
much  this  year — you've  earned  the  right  to  be  quiet.  And 
that's  what  they  want,  both  of  them — they  both  want  it 
quiet,  without  any  scandal."  Her  father  glared,  for  he 
knew  about  scandal,  he  handled  it  in  his  office  each  day. 
"Let  me  manage  this — please,"  she  said.  And  her  offer 
tempted  him.  He  struggled  for  a  moment. 

"No,  I  wun't!"  he  burst  out  in  reply.  "I  want  quiet 
right  enough,  but  not  at  the  price  of  her  peace  with  her 


232  HIS  FAMILY 

God!"  This  sounded  foolish,  he  felt  that  it  did,  and  he 
flushed  and  grew  the  angrier.  "No,  I  wun't,"  he  said 
stubbornly.  "She'll  go  back  to  him  if  I  take  her  myself. 
And  what's  more,"  he  added,  rising,  "she's  to  go  straight 
back  to-night!" 

"She  is  not  going  back  to-night,  my  dear."  And  Deb 
orah  caught  her  father's  arm.  "Sit  down,  please  —  " 

"I've  heard  enough!" 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't,"  she  replied. 

"Very  well."  His  smile  was  caustic.  "Give  me  some 
more  of  it,"  he  said. 

"Her  husband  won't  have  her,"  said  Deborah  bluntly. 
"He  told  me  so  himself  —  to-night." 

"  Did,  eh—  then  I'll  talk  to  him!  " 

"He  thinks,"  she  went  on  in  a  desperate  tone,  "that 
Laura  has  been  leading  —  'her  own  little  life'  —  as  he  put 
it  to  me." 


"He  is  bringing  suit  himself." 

"Oh!  He  is!"  cried  Roger  hoarsely.  "Then  I  will 
talk  to  this  young  man!"  But  she  put  out  a  restraining 
hand  : 

"Father!    Don't  try  to  fight  this  suit!" 

"You  watch  me!"  he  snarled.  Tears  showed  in  her 
eyes: 

"Think!  Oh,  please!  Think  what  you're  doing!  Have 
you  ever  seen  a  divorce-court  —  here,  in  New  York?  Do 
you  know  what  it's  like?  What  it  can  be  like?  " 

"Yes,"  Roger  panted.  He  did  know,  and  the  picture 
came  vividly  into  his  mind  —  a  mass  of  eager  devouring 
eyes  fixed  on  a  girl  in  a  witness  chair.  "  To-morrow  I  see  a 
lawyer!"  he  said. 

"No  —  you  won't  do  that,  my  dear,"  Deborah  told 
him  sadly.  "  Laura's  husband  has  got  proofs." 

Her  father  looked  up  slowly  and  glared  into  his 
daughter's  face. 


HIS  FAMILY  233 

"I've  seen  them  myself/'  she  added.  "And  Laura  has 
admitted  it,  too." 

Still  for  a  moment  he  stared  at  her.  Then  slowly  he 
settled  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  dropped  in  their  sockets, 
and  very  carefully,  with  a  hand  which  was  trembling 
visibly,  he  lifted  his  cigar  to  his  lips.  It  had  gone  nearly 
out,  but  he  drew  on  it  hard  until  it  began  to  glow  again. 

"Well,"  he  asked  simply,  "what  shall  we  do?" 

Sharply  Deborah  turned  away.  To  be  quiet,  to  be 
matter  of  fact,  to  act  as  though  nothing  had  happened  at 
all — she  knew  this  was  what  he  wanted  now,  what  he  was 
silently  begging  her  to  be  for  his  sake,  for  the  family's 
sake.  For  he  had  been  raised  in  New  England.  And  so, 
when  she  turned  back  to  him,  her  voice  was  flat  and  com 
monplace. 

"Keep  her  here,"  she  said.  "Let  him  do  what  he  likes. 
There'll  be  nothing  noisy,  he  promised  me  that.  But  keep 
her  here  till  it's  over." 

Roger  smoked  for  a  moment,  and  said, 

"There's  Edith  and  her  children." 

"The  children  needn't  know  anything — and  Edith  only 
part  of  it." 

"The  less,  the  better,"  he  grunted. 

"Of  course."  She  looked  at  him  anxiously.  This 
tractable  mood  of  his  might  not  last.  "Why  not  go  up 
and  see  her  now — and  get  it  all  over — so  you  can  sleep." 

Over  Roger's  set  heavy  visage  flitted  a  smile  of  grim 
relish  at  that.  Sleep!  Deborah  was  funny.  Resolutely 
he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"You'll  be  careful,  of  course,"  she  admonished  him,  and 
he  nodded  in  reply.  At  the  door  he  turned  back: 

"Where's  the  other  chap?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "Surely  you  don't 
want  to  see  him — "  Her  father  snorted  his  contempt: 

"See  him?  No.  Nor  she  neither.  She's  not  to  see  him. 
Understand?" 


234  HIS  FAMILY 

"I  wouldn't  tell  her  that  to-night." 

"Look  here."  Roger  eyed  his  daughter  a  moment. 
"  You've  done  well.  I've  no  complaint.  But  don't  try  to 
manage  everything." 

He  went  out  and  slowly  climbed  the  stairs.  Outside 
the  bedroom  door  he  paused.  When  had  he  stood  like 
this  before?  In  a  moment  he  remembered.  One  evening 
some  two  years  ago,  the  night  before  Laura's  wedding, 
when  they  had  had  that  other  talk.  And  so  it  had  come  to 
this,  had  it.  Well,  there  was  no  use  making  a  scene. 
Again,  with  a  sigh  of  weariness,  Laura's  father  knocked 
at  her  door. 

"Come  in,  Deborah,"  she  said. 

"It  isn't  Deborah,  it's  I."    There  was  a  little  silence. 

"Very  well,  father,  come  in,  please."  Her  voice 
sounded  tired  and  lifeless.  He  opened  the  door  and 
found  the  room  dark.  "I'm  over  on  the  bed,"  she  said. 
"I've  had  a  headache  this  evening." 

He  came  over  to  the  bedside  and  he  could  just  see 
her  there,  a  long  shadow  upon  the  white.  She  had 
not  taken  off  her  clothes.  He  stood  a  moment  help 
lessly. 

"Please  don't  you  talk  to  me!"  His  daughter  fiercely 
whispered.  "I  can't  stand  any  more  to-night!" 

"I  won't,"  he  answered.  "It's  too  late."  Again  there 
was  a  pause. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked  him.  But  he  did  not 
answer. 

"Well,  Laura,"  he  said  presently,  "your  sister  has  told 
me  everything.  She  has  seen  your  husband — it's  all 
arranged — and  you're  to  stay  here  till  it's  over.  .  .  . 
You  want  to  stay  here,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  it's  settled,"  he  went  on.  "There's  only  one 
thing — the  other  man.  I  don't  know  who  he  is  and  I 
don't  want  to  know.  And  I  don't  want  you  to  know  him 


HIS  FAMILY  235 

again.  You're  not  to  see  him.  Understand? "  For  a 
moment  Laura  was  silent. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  him,  father,"  she  said.  And 
standing  in  the  darkened  room  Roger  stiffened  sharply. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause,  "that's  your  affair. 
You're  no 'longer  a  child.  I  wish  you  were,"  he  added. 

Suddenly  in  the  darkness  Laura's  hand  came  out 
clutching  for  his.  But  he  had  already  turned  to  the  door. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  and  left  her. 

In  the  hallway  below  he  met  Deborah,  and  to  her 
questioning  look  he  replied,  "All  right,  I  guess.  Now  I'm 
going  to  bed."  He  went  into  his  room  and  closed  the  door. 

As  soon  as  Roger  was  alone,  he  knew  this  was  the  hard 
est  part — to  be  here  by  himself  in  this  intimate  room, 
with  this  worn  blue  rug,  these  pictures  and  this  old  mahog 
any  bed.  For  he  had  promised  Judith  his  wife  to  keep 
close  to  the  children.  What  would  she  think  of  him  if  she 
knew? 

Judith  had  been  a  broad-minded  woman,  sensible,  big- 
hearted.  But  she  never  would  have  stood  for  this.  Once, 
he  recollected,  she  had  helped  a  girl  friend  to  divorce  her 
husband,  a  drunkard  who  ran  after  chorus  girls.  But 
that  had  been  quite  different.  There  the  wife  had  been 
innocent  and  had  done  it  for  her  children.  Laura  was 
guilty,  she  hadn't  a  child,  she  was  already  planning  to 
marry  again.  And  then  what,  he  asked  himself.  "From 
bad  to  worse,  very  likely.  A  woman  can't  stop  when  she's 
started  downhill."  His  eye  was  caught  by  the  picture 
directly  before  him  on  the  wall — the  one  his  wife  had  given 
him — two  herdsmen  with  their  cattle  high  up  on  a  shoulder 
of  a  sweeping  mountain  side,  tiny  blue  figures  against 
the  dawn.  It  had  been  like  a  symbol  of  their  lives,  always 
beginning  clean  glorious  days.  What  was  Laura  begin 
ning? 

"Well,"  he  demanded  angrily,  as  he  began  to  jerk  off 
his  clothes,  "what  can  I  do  about  it?  Try  to  keep  her 


236  HIS  FAMILY 

from  re-marrying,  eh?  And  suppose  I  succeeded,  how 
long  would  it  last?  She  wouldn't  stay  here  and  I  couldn't 
keep  her.  She'll  be  independent  now — her  looks  will  be 
her  bank  account.  There' d  be  some  other  chap  in  no  time, 
and  he  might  not  even  marry  her ! "  He  tugged  ferociously 
at  his  boots.  "No,  let  well  enough  alone!" 

He  finished  undressing,  opened  the  window,  turned  out 
the  gas  and  got  into  bed.  Wearily  he  closed  his  eyes. 
But  after  a  time  he  opened  them  and  stared  long  through 
the  window  up  at  the  beetling  cliff  of  a  building  close  by, 
with  its  tier  upon  tier  of  lighted  apartments,  a  huge  garish 
hive  of  homes.  Yes,  the  town  was  crowding  down  on  him 
to-night,  on  his  house  and  on  his  family.  He  realized 
it  had  never  stopped,  and  that  his  three  grown  children, 
each  one  of  them  a  part  of  himself,  had  been  struggling 
with  it  all  the  time.  Laura — wasn't  she  part  of  himself? 
Hadn't  he,  too,  had  his  little  fling,  back  in  his  early  twen 
ties?  "You  will  live  on  in  our  children's  lives."  She 
was  a  part  of  him  gone  wild.  She  gave  it  free  rein,  took 
chances.  God,  what  a  chance  she  had  taken  this  time! 
The  picture  of  that  court  he  had  seen,  with  the  girl  in  the 
witness  chair  and  those  many  rows  of  eyes  avidly  fixed  upon 
her,  came  back  to  his  mind  so  vividly  they  seemed  for  a 
moment  right  here  in  the  room,  these  eyes  of  the  town 
boring  into  his  house.  Angrily  he  shut  out  the  scene. 
And  alone  in  the  darkness,  Roger  said  to  his  daughter 
all  the  ugly  furious  things  he  had  not  said  to  her  upstairs 
— until  at  last  he  was  weary  of  it. 

"Why  am  I  working  myself  all  up?  I've  got  to  take 
this.  It's  my  medicine." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

BUT  as  he  watched  Laura  in  the  house,  Roger's  first  emo 
tions  were  complicated  more  and  more  by  a  feeling  of  be 
wilderment.  At  dinner  the  next  evening  he  noticed  with 
astonishment  that  she  appeared  like  her  natural  self. 
"  She's  acting/'  he  decided.  But  this  explanation  he  soon 
dismissed.  No,  it  was  something  deeper.  She  was  ac 
tually  unashamed,  unafraid.  That  first  display  of  feel 
ings,  the  night  of  her  arrival,  had  been  only  the  scare  of  an 
hou*-.  Within  a  few  days  she  was  back  on  her  feet;  and  her 
cure  for  her  trouble,  if  trouble  she  felt,  was  not  less  but 
more  pleasure,  as  always.  She  went  out  nearly  every 
evening  now;  and  when  she  had  spent  what  money  she  had, 
she  sold  a  part  of  her  jewelry  to  the  little  old  Galician  Jew 
in  the  shop  around  the  corner.  Yes,  she  was  her  natural 
self.  And  she  was  as  before  to  her  father.  Her  attitude 
said  plainly, 

"It  isn't  fair  to  you,  poor  dear,  to  expect  you  to  fully 
understand  how  right  I  am  in  this  affair.  And  considering 
your  point  of  view,  you're  acting  very  nicely." 

Often  as  she  talked  to  him  a  note  of  good-humored  for 
giveness  crept  into  his  daughter's  voice.  And  looking  at 
her  grimly  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  saw  that  she 
looked  down  on  him,  far,  far  down  from  heights  above. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "this  is  modern."  Then  he  grew 
angry  all  at  once.  "No,"  he  added,  "this  is  wrong!  You 
can't  fool  me,  young  woman,  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do 
myself!  You're  not  going  to  carry  this  off  with  an  air — • 
not  with  your  father!  No,  by  George!" 

And  he  would  grow  abrupt  and  stern.  But  days  would 

237 


238  HIS  FAMILY 

pass  and  in  spite  of  himself  into  their  talks  would  creep 
a  natural  friendly  tone.  Again  he  found  himself  friends 
with  her — friends  as  though  nothing  whatever  had  hap 
pened  !  Could  it  be  that  a  woman  who  had  so  sinned  could 
go  right  on?  Here  was  Laura,  serenely  unconscious  of 
guilt,  and  smiling  into  her  future,  dreaming  still  of  happi 
ness,  quite  plainly  sure  of  it,  in  fact!  With  a  curious 
dismayed  relief  Roger  would  scowl  at  this  daughter  of  his 
— a  radiant  enigma  in  his  quiet  sober  house. 

But  Edith  was  not  at  all  perplexed.  When  she  learned 
from  Deborah  that  there  was  soon  to  be  a  divorce,  she 
came  at  once  to  her  father.  Her  face  was  like  a  thunder 
cloud. 

UA  nice  example  for  my  children!"  she  indignantly 
exclaimed. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear.    But  what  can  I  do?" 

"You  can  make  her  go  back  to  her  husband,  can't 
you?" 

"No,  I  can't,"  he  flatly  replied. 

"Then  I'd  better  try  it  myself!" 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing!"  he  retorted.  "I've  gone 
clear  to  the  bottom  of  this — and  I  say  you're  to  leave  her 
alone!" 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered.  And  she  did  leave  her  sister 
alone,  so  severely  that  Laura  soon  avoided  being  home  for 
lunch  or  dinner.  She  had  taken  the  room  which  George  had 
occupied  ever  since  John  had  been  turned  out,  and  there 
she  breakfasted  late  in  bed,  until  Edith  put  a  stop  to  it. 
They  barely  spoke  to  each  other  now.  Laura  still  smiled 
defiance. 

Days  passed.  Christmas  came  at  last,  and  despite 
Edith's  glum  resolution  to  make  it  a  happy  time  for  the 
children,  the  happiness  soon  petered  out.  After  the  tree 
in  the  morning,  the  day  hung  heavy  on  the  house.  Roger 
buried  himself  in  his  study.  Laura  had  motored  off  into 
the  country  with  a  gay  party  of  her  friends.  Or  was  this 


HIS  FAMILY  239 

just  a  ruse,  he  wondered,  and  was  she  spending  the  day 
with  her  lover?  Well,  what  if  she  was?  Could  he  lock  her 
in? 

About  twilight  he  thought  he  heard  her  return,  and 
later  from  his  bedroom  he  heard  her  voice  and  Edith's. 
Both  voices  sounded  angry,  but  he  would  not  interfere. 

At  the  Christmas  dinner  that  evening  Laura  did  not  put 
in  an  appearance,  but  Edith  sat  stiff  and  silent  there;  and 
despite  the  obvious  efforts  which  Deborah  and  Allan  made 
to  be  genial  with  the  children,  the  very  air  in  the  room 
was  charged  with  the  feeling  of  trouble  close  ahead.  Again 
Roger  retreated  into  his  den,  and  presently  Laura  came 
to  him. 

"Good-night — I'm  going  out,"  she  said,  and  she  pressed 
her  cheek  lightly  to  his  own.  "What  a  dear  you've  been 
to  me,  dad,"  she  murmured.  And  then  she  was  gone. 

A  few  minutes  later  Edith  came  in.  She  held  a  small 
note  in  her  hand,  which  Roger  saw  was  addressed  to 
himself. 

"Well,  father,  I  learned  this  afternoon  what  you've  been 
keeping  from  me,"  she  said.  Roger  gave  her  a  steady 
look. 

"You  did,  eh— Laura  told  you?" 

"Yes,  she  did!"  his  daughter  exclaimed.  "And  I  can't 
help  wondering,  father — " 

"Why  did  she  tell  you?  Have  you  been  at  her  again 
to-day?" 

"Again?  Not  at  all,"  she  answered.  "I've  done  as 
you  asked  me  to,  let  her  alone.  But  to-day — mother's 
day — I  got  thinking  of  her." 

"Leave  your  mother  out  of  it,  please.  What  did  you 
say  to  Laura?" 

"I  tried  to  make  her  go  back,  of  course — " 

"And  she  told  you— 

"He  wouldn't  have  her!  And  then  in  a  perfect  tan 
trum  she  went  on  to  tell  me  why!"  Edith's  eyes  were 


240  HIS  FAMILY 

cold  with  disgust.  "And  I'm  wondering  why  you  let  her 
stay  here — in  the  same  house  with  my  children!" 

Roger  reached  out  his  hand. 

"Give  me  that  note,"  he  commanded.  He  read  it 
quickly  and  handed  it  back.  The  note  was  from  Laura, 
a  hasty  good-bye. 

"Edith  will  explain,"  she  wrote,  "and  you  will  see  I 
cannot  stay  any  longer.  It  is  simply  too  impossible.  I 
am  going  to  the  man  I  love — and  in  a  few  days  we  shall 
sail  for  Naples.  I  know  you  will  not  interfere.  It  will 
make  the  divorce  even  simpler  and  everything  easier  all 
round.  Please  don't  worry  about  me.  We  shall  soon  be 
married  over  there.  You  have  been  so  dear  and  sensible 
and  I  do  so  love  you  for  it."  Then  came  her  name  scrawled 
hastily.  And  at  the  bottom  of  the  page:  "I  have  paid 
every  bill  I  can  think  of." 

Edith  read  it  in  silence,  her  color  slowly  mounting. 

"All  right,"  said  her  father,  "your  children  are  safe." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  angry  look,  burst  into  tears  and 
ran  out  of  the  room. 

Roger  sat  without  moving,  his  heavy  face  impassive. 
And  so  he  remained  for  a  long  time.  Well,  Laura  was 
gone — no  mistake  about  that — and  this  time  she  was  gone 
for  good.  She  was  going  to  live  in  Rome.  Try  to  stop  her? 
No.  What  good  would  it  do?  Wings  of  the  Eagles,  Rome 
reborn.  That  was  it,  she  had  hit  it,  struck  the  keynote  of 
this  new  age.  Rome  reborn,  all  clean,  old-fashioned 
Christian  living  swept  away  by  millions  of  men  at  each 
others'  throats  like  so  many  wolves.  And  at  last  quite 
openly  to  himself  Roger  admitted  that  he  felt  old.  Old 
and  beaten,  out  of  date.  Moments  passed,  and  hours — he 
took  little  note  of  time.  Nor  did  he  see  on  the  mantle  the 
dark  visage  of  "The  Thinker"  there,  resting  on  the  huge 
clinched  fist  and  brooding  clown  upon  him.  Lower,  im 
perceptibly,  he  sank  into  his  leather  chair. 

Quiet  had  returned  to  his  house. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

BUT  the  quiet  was  dark  to  Roger  now.  Each  night  he 
spent  in  his  study  alone,  for  instinctively  he  felt  the  need 
of  being  by  himself  for  a  while,  of  keeping  away  from  his 
children — out  of  whose  lives  he  divined  that  other  events 
would  soon  come  forth  to  use  up  the  last  of  the  strength 
that  was  in  him. 

And  Roger  grew  angry  with  the  world.  Why  couldn't 
it  let  a  man  alone,  an  old  man  in  a  silent  house  alive  for 
him  with  memories?  Repeatedly  in  such  hours  his  mind 
would  go  groping  backward  into  the  years  behind  him. 
What  a  long  and  winding  road,  half  buried  in  the  jungle, 
dim,  almost  impenetrable,  made  up  of  millions  of  small 
events,  small  worries,  plans  and  dazzling  dreams,  with 
which  his  days  had  all  been  filled.  But  the  more  he  re 
called  the  more  certain  he  grew  that  he  was  right.  Life 
had  never  been  like  this :  the  world  had  never  come  smash 
ing  into  his  house,  his  very  family,  with  its  dirty  teeming 
tenements,  its  schools,  its  prisons,  electric  chairs,  its  fe 
verish  rush  for  money,  its  luxuries,  its  scandals.  These 
things  had  existed  in  the  world,  but  remote  and  never 
real,  mere  things  which  he  had  read  about.  War?  Did 
he  not  remember  wars  that  had  come  and  gone  in  Europe? 
But  they  hadn't  come  into  his  home  like  this,  first  making 
him  poor  when  he  needed  money  for  Edith  and  her  chil 
dren,  then  plunging  Deborah  into  a  struggle  which  might 
very  probably  ruin  her  life,  and  now  taking  Laura  and 
filling  her  mind  with  thoughts  of  pagan  living.  Why  was 
every  man,  woman  and  child,  these  days,  bound  up  in  the 
whole  life  of  the  world?  What  would  come  of  it  all?  A 

241 


242  HIS  FAMILY 

new  day  out  of  this  deafening  night?  Maybe  so.  But 
for  him  it  would  come  too  late. 

"What  have  I  left  to  live  for?" 

One  night  with  a  sigh  he  went  to  his  desk,  lit  a  cigar 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  a  pile  of  letters  which  had  been 
mounting  steadily.  It  was  made  up  of  Laura's  bills,  the 
ones  she  had  not  remembered.  Send  them  after  her  to 
Rome  for  that  Italian  fellow  to  pay?  No,  it  could  not  be 
thought  of.  Roger  turned  to  his  dwindling  bank  account. 
He  was  not  yet  making  money,  he  was  still  losing  a  little 
each  week.  But  he  would  not  cut  expenses.  To  the  few 
who  were  left  in  his  employ,  to  be  turned  away  would 
mean  dire  need.  And  angrily  he  determined  that  they 
should  not  starve  to  pay  Laura's  bills.  "The  world  for 
the  strong,  eh?  Not  in  my  office!"  In  Rome  or  Berlin 
or  Vienna,  all  right!  But  not  over  here! 

Grimly,  when  he  had  made  out  the  checks,  Roger  eyed 
his  balance.  By  spring  he  would  be  penniless.  And  he 
had  no  one  to  turn  to  now,  no  rich  young  son-in-law  who 
could  aid. 

He  set  himself  doggedly  to  the  task  of  forcing  up  his 
business,  and  meanwhile  in  the  evenings  he  tried  with 
Edith  to  get  back  upon  their  former  footing.  To  do  this 
was  not  easy  at  first,  for  his  bitterness  still  rankled  deep: 
"When  you  were  in  trouble  I  took  you  in,  but  when  she 
was  in  trouble  you  turned  her  out,  as  you  turned  out  John 
before  her."  In  the  room  again  vacated,  young  George 
had  been  reinstalled.  One  night  Edith  found  her  father 
there  looking  in  through  the  open  doorway,  and  the  look  on 
his  massive  face  was  hard. 

"Better  have  the  room  disinfected  again,"  he  mut 
tered  when  he  saw  her.  He  turned  and  went  slowly 
down  the  stairs.  And  she  was  late  for  dinner  that 
night. 

But  Edith  had  her  children.  And  as  he  watched  her 
night  by  night  hearing  their  lessons  patiently,  reading  them 


HIS  FAMILY  243 

fairy  stories  and  holding  them  smilingly  in  her  arms,  the 
old  appeal  of  her  motherhood  regained  its  hold  upon  him. 
One  evening  when  the  clock  struck  nine,  putting  down  his 
paper  he  suggested  gruffly, 

"Well,  daughter,  how  about  some  chess?" 

Edith  flushed  a  little: 

"Why,  yes,  dear,  I'd  be  glad  to." 

She  rose  and  went  to  get  the  board.  So  the  games  were 
resumed,  and  part  at  least  of  their  old  affection  came  to 
life.  But  only  a  part.  It  could  never  be  quite  the  same 
again. 

And  though  he  saw  little  of  Deborah,  slowly,  almost 
unawares  to  them  both,  she  assumed  the  old  place  she  had 
had  in  his  home — as  the  one  who  had  been  right  here  in 
the  house  through  all  the  years  since  her  mother  had  died, 
the  one  who  had  helped  and  never  asked  help,  keeping  her 
own  troubles  to  herself.  He  fell  back  into  his  habit  of 
going  before  dinner  to  his  daughter's  bedroom  door  to  ask 
whether  she  would  be  home  that  night.  At  one  such 
time,  getting  no  response  and  thinking  Deborah  was 
not  there,  he  opened  the  door  part  way  to  make  sure. 
And  he  saw  her  at  her  dresser,  staring  at  herself  in  the 
glass,  rigid  as  though  in  a  trance.  Later  in  the  dining 
room  he  heard  her  step  upon  the  stairs.  She  came  in 
quietly  and  sat  down;  and  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  she 
said  her  good-nights  and  left  the  house.  But  when  she 
came  home  at  midnight,  he  was  waiting  up  for  her.  He 
had  foraged  in  the  kitchen,  and  on  his  study  table  he  had 
set  out  some  supper.  While  she  sat  there  eating,  her 
father  watched  her  from  his  chair. 

"Things  going  badly  in  school?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.     There  was  silence. 

"What's  wrong?" 

"To-night  we  had  a  line  of  mothers  reaching  out  into 
the  street.  They  had  come  for  food  and  coal — but  we  had 
to  send  most  of  them  home  empty-handed.  Some  of 


244  HIS  FAMILY 

them  cried — and  one  of  them  fainted.  She's  to  have  a 
baby  soon." 

"Can't  you  get  any  money  uptown?"  he  asked. 

"I  have,"  she  answered  grimly.  "I've  been  a  beggar 
— heaven  knows — on  every  friend  I  can  think  of.  And 
I've  kept  a  press  agent  hard  at  work  trying  to  make  the 
public  see  that  Belgium  is  right  here  in  New  York."  She 
stopped  and  went  on  with  her  supper.  "But  it's  a  bad 
time  for  work  like  mine,"  she  continued  presently.  "If 
we're  to  keep  it  going  we  must  above  all  keep  it  cheap. 
That's  the  keynote  these  days,  keep  everything  cheap — 
at  any  cost — so  that  men  can  expensively  kill  one  another." 
Her  voice  had  a  bitter  ring  to  it.  "  You  try  to  talk  peace 
and  they  bowl  you  over,  with  facts  on  the  need  of  pre 
paredness — for  the  defence  of  your  country.  And  that 
doesn't  appeal  to  me  very  much.  I  want  a  bigger  pre 
paredness — for  the  defence  of  the  whole  world — f or  democ 
racy,  and  human  rights,  no  matter  who  the  people  are! 
I'd  like  to  train  every  child  to  that!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  her  father  asked. 

"To  teach  him  what  his  life  can  be!"  she  replied  in  a 
hard  quivering  tone.  "A  fight?  Oh  yes!  So  long  as  he 
lives — and  even  with  guns  if  it  must  be  so!  But  a  fight 
for  all  the  people  on  earth ! — and  a  world  so  full  of  happy 
lives  that  men  will  think  hard — before  ever  again  letting 
themselves  be  led  by  the  nose — into  war  and  death — 
for  a  place  in  the  sun!"  She  rose  from  her  chair,  with  a 
weary  smile:  "Here  I  am  making  a  speech  again.  I've 
made  so  many  lately  it's  become  a  habit.  I'm  tired  out, 
dad,  I'm  going  to  bed."  Her  father  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"You're  seeing  things  out  of  proportion,"  he  said. 
"  You've  worked  so  hard  you're  getting  stale.  You  ought 
to  get  out  of  it  for  a  while." 

"I  can't!"  she  answered  sharply.  "You  don't  know — 
you  don't  even  guess — how  it  takes  every  hour — all  the 
demands!" 


HIS  FAMILY  245 

"Where's  Allan  these  days?" 

"  Working,"  was  her  harsh  reply.  "  Trying  to  keep  his 
hospital  going  with  half  its  staff.  The  woman  who  was 
backing  him  is  giving  her  money  to  Belgium  instead." 

"Do  you  see  much  of  him?" 

"Every  day.     Let's  drop  it.     Shall  we?" 

"All  right,  my  dear — " 

And  they  said  good-night.  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime,  in  the  house,  Edith  had  tried  to  scrimp 
and  save,  but  it  was  very  difficult.  Her  children  had  so 
many  needs,  they  were  all  growing  up  so  fast.  Each 
month  brought  fresh  demands  on  her  purse,  and  the  fund 
from  the  sale  of  her  belongings  had  been  used  up  long  ago. 
Her  sole  resource  was  the  modest  allowance  her  father 
gave  her  for  running  the  house,  and  she  had  not  asked  him 
for  more.  She  had  put  off  trouble  from  month  to  month. 
But  one  evening  early  in  March,  when  he  gave  her  the 
regular  monthly  check,  she  said  hesitatingly: 

"I'm  very  sorry,  father  dear,  but  I'm  afraid  we'll  need 
more  money  this  month."  He  glanced  up  from  his  paper: 

"What's  the  matter?"  She  gave  him  a  forced  little 
smile,  and  her  father  noticed  the  gray  in  her  hair. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular.  Goodness  knows  I've  tried 
to  keep  down  expenses,  but — well,  we're  a  pretty  large 
household,  you  know — 

"Yes,"  said  Roger  kindly,  "I  know.  Are  the  month's 
bills  in?" 

"Yes." 

"Let  me  see  them."  She  brought  him  the  bills  and  he 
looked  relieved.  "Not  so  many,"  he  ventured. 

"No,  but  they're  large." 

"Why,  look  here,  Edith,"  he  said  abruptly,  "these  are 
bills  for  two  months — some  for  three,  even  four!" 

"  I  know — that's  just  the  trouble.  I  couldn't  meet  them 
at  the  time." 


246  HIS  FAMILY 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Laura  was  here — and  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you — 
you  had  enough  on  your  mind  as  it  was.  I've  done  the 
best  I  could,  father  dear — I've  sold  everything,  you  know 
—but  I've  about  come  to  the  end  of  my  rope."  And  her 
manner  said  clearly,  "I've  done  my  part.  I'm  only  a 
woman.  I'll  have  to  leave  the  rest  to  you." 

"I  see — I  see."  And  Roger  knitted  his  heavy  brows. 
"I  presume  I  can  get  it  somehow."  This  would  play  the 
very  devil  with  things! 

" Father."  Edith's  voice  was  low.  "Why  don't  you 
let  Deborah  help  you?  She  does  very  little,  it  seems  to 
me — compared  to  the  size  of  her  salary." 

"She  can't  do  any  more  than  she's  doing  now,"  was 
his  decisive  answer.  Edith  looked  at  him,  her  color  high. 
She  hesitated,  then  burst  out: 

"I  saw  her  check  book  the  other  day,  she  had  left  it  on 
the  table!  She's  spending  thousands — every  month!" 

"That's  not  her  own  money,"  Roger  said. 

"No — it's  money  she  gets  for  her  fads — her  work  for 
those  tenement  children!  She  can  get  money  enough  for 
them!"  He  flung  out  his  hand: 

"Leave  her  out  of  this,  please!" 

"Very  well,  father,  just  as  you  say."  And  she  sat  there 
hurt  and  silent  while  again  he  looked  slowly  through  the 
bills.  He  jotted  down  figures  and  added  them  up.  They 
came  to  a  bit  over  nine  hundred  dollars.  Soon  Deborah's 
key  was  heard  in  the  door,  and  Roger  scowled  the  deeper. 
She  came  into  the  room,  but  he  did  not  look  up.  He  heard 
her  voice: 

"What's  the  matter,  Edith?" 

"Bills  for  the  house." 

"Oh."  And  Deborah  came  to  her  father.  "May  I 
see  what's  the  trouble,  dear?" 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't.  It's  nothing,"  he  growled. 
He  wanted  her  to  keep  out  of  this. 


HIS  FAMILY  247 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  see?  "  Edith  tartly  inquired.  "  Deb 
orah  is  living  here — and  before  I  came  she  ran  the  house. 
In  her  place  I  should  certainly  want  to  know." 

Deborah  was  already  glancing  rapidly  over  the  bills. 

"Why,  Edith/'  she  exclaimed,  "most  of  these  bills  go 
back  for  months.  Why  didn't  you  pay  them  when  they 
were  due?" 

"Simply  because  I  hadn't  the  money!" 

"You've  had  the  regular  monthly  amount." 

"That  didn't  last  long—" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us?" 

"Laura  was  here." 

Deborah  gave  a  shrug  of  impatience,  and  Roger  saw  how 
tired  she  was,  her  nerves  on  edge  from  her  long  day. 

"Never  mind  about  it  now,"  he  put  in. 

"What  a  pity,"  Deborah  muttered.  "If  we  had  been 
told,  we  could  have  cut  down." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you!;'  Edith  rejoined.  "I  have 
already  done  that  myself!  I've  done  nothing  else!" 

"Have  the  servants  been  paid?"  her  sister  asked. 

"No,  they  haven't—" 

"Since  when?" 

"Three  months!" 

Roger  got  up  and  walked  the  room.  Deborah  tried  to 
speak  quietly: 

"I  can't  quite  see  where  the  money  has  gone." 

"Can't  you?  Then  look  at  my  check  book."  And 
Edith  produced  it  with  a  glare.  Her  sister  turned  over  a 
few  of  the  stubs. 

"What's  this  item?" 

"Where?" 

"Here.    A  hundred  and  twenty-two  dollars." 

"The  dentist,"  Edith  answered.  "Not  extravagant, 
is  it — for  five  children?" 

"  I  see,"  said  Deborah.    "  And  this?  " 

"Bedding,"  was  Edith's  sharp  response.    "A  mattress 


248  HIS  FAMILY 

and  more  blankets.  I  found  there  weren't  half  enough  in 
the  house." 

"You  burned  John's,  didn't  you?" 

"Naturally!" 

All  at  once  both  grew  ashamed. 

"Let's  be  sensible,"  Deborah  said.  "We  must  do 
something,  Edith — and  we  can't  till  we're  certain  where 
we  stand." 

"Very  well—" 

They  went  on  more  calmly  and  took  up  the  items  one 
by  one.  Deborah  finished  and  was  silent. 

"Well,  father,  what's  to  be  done?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"Somehow  or  other,"  Deborah  said,  "we've  got  to  cut 
our  expenses  down." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  impossible,"  Edith  rejoined.  "I've 
already  cut  as  much  as  I  can." 

"So  did  I,  in  my  school,"  said  her  sister.  "And  when 
I  thought  I  had  reached  the  end,  I  called  in  an  expert.  And 
he  showed  me  ways  of  saving  I  had  never  dreamed  of." 

"What  kind  of  expert  would  you  advise  here?" 
Edith's  small  lip  curled  in  scorn. 

"Domestic  science,  naturally — I  have  a  woman  who 
does  nothing  else.  She  shows  women  in  their  homes  just 
how  to  make  money  count  the  most." 

"What  women?     And  what  homes?     Tenements?" 

"Yes.    She's  one  of  my  teachers." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Edith  indignantly.  "But  I  don't 
care  to  have  my  children  brought  down  to  tenement 
standards!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  have  them!  But  I  know  she  could 
show  you  a  great  many  things  you  can  buy  for  less!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  agree  with  her!" 

"Why  not,   Edith?" 

"Because  she  knows  only  tenement  children — nothing 
of  children  bred  like  mine!" 


HIS  FAMILY  249 

Deborah  drew  a  quick  short  breath,  her  brows  drew 
tight  and  she  looked  away.  She  bit  her  lip,  controlled  her 
self: 

"Very  well,  I'll  try  again.  This  house  is  plenty  large 
enough  so  that  by  a  little  crowding  we  could  make  room  for 
somebody  else.  And  I  know  a  teacher  in  one  of  my 
schools  who'd  be  only  too  glad — 

"Take  a  boarder,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  I  do!    We've  got  to  do  something!" 

"No!" 

Deborah  threw  up  her  hands: 

"All  right,  Edith,  I'm  through,"  she  said.  "Now  what 
do  you  propose?" 

"I  can  try  to  do  without  Hannah  again — " 

"That  will  be  hard — on  all  of  us.  But  I  guess  you'll 
have  to." 

"So  it  seems." 

"But  unfortunately  that  won't  be  enough." 

Edith's  face  grew  tenser: 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  have  to  be — just  now — I've  had 
about  all  I  can  stand  for  one  night!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  Deborah  answered.  For  a  moment  they 
confronted  each  other.  And  Edith's  look  said  to  Deborah 
plainly,  "You're  spending  thousands,  thousands,  on  those 
tenement  children!  You  can  get  money  enough  for  them, 
but  you  won't  raise  a  hand  to  help  with  mine!"  And  as 
plainly  Deborah  answered,  "My  children  are  starving, 
shivering,  freezing!  What  do  yours  know  about  being 
poor?"  Two  mothers,  each  with  a  family,  and  each  one 
baffled,  brought  to  bay.  There  was  something  so  insatia 
ble  in  each  angry  mother's  eyes. 

"I  think  you'd  better  leave  this  to  me,"  said  Roger 
very  huskily.  And  both  his  daughters  turned  with  a 
start,  as  though  in  their  bitter  absorption  they  had  for 
gotten  his  presence  there.  Both  flushed,  and  now  the 
glances  of  all  three  in  that  room  avoided  each  other.  For 


250  HIS  FAMILY 

they  felt  how  sordid  it  had  been.  Deborah  turned  to  her 
sister. 

"I'm  sorry,  Edith/'  she  said  again,  and  this  time  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Edith  unsteadily,  and  in  a  moment  she 
left  the  room.  Deborah  stood  watching  her  father. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said.  "Well?  Shall  we 
talk  it  over?" 

" No/'  he  replied.  "I  can  manage  it  somehow,  Deborah, 
and  I  prefer  that  you  leave  it  to  me." 

Roger  went  into  his  study  and  sank  grimly  into  his 
chair.  Yes,  it  had  been  pretty  bad;  it  had  been  ugly, 
ominous.  He  took  paper  and  pencil  and  set  to  work. 
How  he  had  come  to  hate  this  job  of  wrestling  with  fig 
ures.  Of  the  five  thousand  dollars  borrowed  in  August 
he  had  barely  a  thousand  left.  The  first  semi-annual 
interest  was  due  next  week  and  must  be  paid.  The  bal 
ance  would  carry  them  through  March  and  on  well  into 
April.  By  that  time  he  hoped  to  be  making  money,  for 
business  was  better  every  week.  But  what  of  this  nine 
hundred  dollars  in  debts?  Half  at  least  must  be 
paid  at '  once.  Lower  and  lower  he  sank  in  his  chair. 
But  a  few  moments  later,  his  blunt  heavy  visage  cleared, 
and  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief  he  put  away  his  papers, 
turned  out  the  lights  and  went  upstairs.  The  dark  house 
felt  friendly  and  comforting  now.. 

In  his  room  he  opened  the  safe  in  the  corner  where  his 
collection  of  curious  rings  had  lain  unnoticed  for  many 
months.  He  drew  out  a  tray,  sat  down  by  the  light  and 
began  to  look  them  over.  At  first  only  small  inanimate  ob 
jects,  gradually  as  from  tray  after  tray  they  glittered 
duskily  up  at  him,  they  began  to  yield  their  riches  as  they 
had  so  often  done  before.  Spanish,  French,  Italian, 
Bohemian,  Hungarian,  Russian  and  Arabian,  rings  small 
and  rings  enormous,  religious  rings  and  magic  rings,  poi 
son  rings,  some  black  with  age  for  all  his  careful  polishing 


HIS  FAMILY  251 

— again  they  stole  deep  into  Roger's  imagination  with 
suggestions  of  the  many  hands  that  had  worn  them 
through  the  centuries,  of  women  kneeling  in  old  churches, 
couples  in  dark  crooked  streets,  adventures,  love,  hate, 
jealousy.  Youth  and  fire,  dreams  and  passion.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  remembered  why  he  was  here.  He  thought 
of  possible  purchasers.  He  knew  so  many  dealers,  but  he 
knew,  too,  that  the  war  had  played  the  devil  with  them 
as  with  everyone  else.  Still,  he  thought  of  several  who 
would  find  it  hard  to  resist  the  temptation.  He  would  see 
them  to-morrow,  one  by  one,  and  get  them  bidding,  hag 
gling.  Roger  frowned  disgustedly. 

No  help  for  it,  though,  and  it  was  a  relief.  It  would 
bring  a  truce  in  his  house  for  a  time. 

But  the  truce  was  brief. 

On  the  afternoon  when  he  sold  his  collection  Roger  came 
home  all  out  of  sorts.  He  had  been  forced  to  haggle  long; 
it  had  been  a  mean  inglorious  day;  one  of  the  brightest 
paths  in  his  life  had  ended  in  a  pigstie.  But  at  least  he 
had  bought  some  peace  in  his  home!  Women,  women, 
women !  He  shut  the  front  door  with  a  slam  and  went  up 
to  his  room  for  a  little  rest,  a  little  of  what  he  had  paid  for! 
On  the  stairs  he  passed  young  Betsy,  and  he  startled  the 
girl  by  the  sudden  glare  of  reproach  he  bestowed  upon  her. 
Savagely  he  told  himself  he  was  no  " feminist"  that  night! 

The  brief  talk  he  had  with  Edith  was  far  from  reassur 
ing.  With  no  Deborah  there  to  wound  her  pride,  Edith 
quickly  showed  herself  friendly  to  her  father;  but  when  he 
advised  her  to  keep  her  nurse,  she  at  once  refused  to  con 
sider  it. 

"I  want  you  to/'  he  persisted,  with  an  anxious  note  in 
his  voice.  He  had  tried  life  without  Hannah  here  and  he 
did  not  care  to  try  it  again. 

"It  is  already  settled,  father,  I  sent  her  away  this 
morning." 


252  HIS  FAMILY 

"Then  you  get  her  right  back!"  he  exclaimed.  But 
Edith's  face  grew  obstinate. 

"I  don't  care  to  give  Deborah,"  she  replied,  "another 
chance  to  talk  as  she  did." 

Roger  looked  at  her  gloomily.  "You  will,  though," 
he  was  thinking.  "You  two  have  only  just  begun.  Let 
any  little  point  arise,  which  a  couple  of  men  would  settle 
offhand,  and  you  two  will  get  together  and  go  it!  There'll 
be  no  living  in  the  house!" 

With  deepening  displeasure  he  watched  the  struggle 
between  them  go  on.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  Roger 
there  was  not  a  topic  he  could  bring  up  which  would 
not  in  some  way  bring  on  a  clash.  One  night  in  despera 
tion  he  proposed  the  theatre. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  afford  it,"  said  Edith,  glancing  at 
Deborah.  And  she  had  the  same  answer,  again  and  again, 
for  the  requests  her  children  made,  if  they  involved  but 
the  smallest  expense.  "No,  dear,  I'm  afraid  we  can't 
afford  that,"  she  would  say  gently,  with  a  sigh.  Arid 
under  this  constant  pressure,  these  nightly  little  thrusts 
and  jabs,  Deborah  would  grow  rigid  with  annoyance  and 
impatience. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Edith,"  she  burst  out,  one  night 
when  the  children  had  gone  to  their  lessons,  "can  you 
think  of  nothing  on  earth,  except  your  own  little  family?  " 

"Here  it  comes  again,"  thought  Roger,  scowling  into 
his  paper.  He  heard  Edith's  curt  reply: 

"No,  I  can't,  not  nowadays.  Nobody  else  seems  to 
think  of  them." 

"You  mean  that  I  don't!" 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes!  I'm  thinking  of  George!  Do  you  want  him 
killed  in  the  trenches — in  a  war  with  Germany  or  Japan?" 

"Are  you  utterly  mad?"  demanded  Edith. 

"No,  I'm  awake — my  eyes  are  open!  But  yours  are 
shut  so  tight,  my  dear,  you  can't  see  what  has  happened! 


HIS  FAMILY  253 

You  know  this  war  has  made  us  poor  and  your  own  life 
harder,  but  that's  all.  The  big  thing  it  has  done  you 
know  nothing  about!" 

"Suppose  you  teach  me/'  Edith  said,  with  a  prim  pro 
voking  little  smile.  Deborah  turned  on  her  angrily: 

"It  has  shown  that  all  such  mothers  as  you  are  out  of 
date  and  have  got  to  change !  That  we're  bound  together 
— all  over  the  world — whether  we  like  it  or  whether  we 
don't!  And  that  if  we  want  to  keep  out  of  war,  we've  got 
to  do  it  by  coming  right  out  of  our  own  little  homes — and 
thinking,  Edith,  thinking!" 

"Votes  for  women,"  Edith  said.  Deborah  looked  at 
her,  rose  with  a  shrug. 

"All  right,  Edith,  I  give  up." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  not  worth  it.  You'd  better  go 
back  to  your  office  now  and  go  on  with  your  work  of  saving 
the  world.  And  use  every  hour  of  your  time  and  every 
dollar  you  possess.  I'll  stay  here  and  look  after  my  chil 
dren." 

Deborah  had  gone  into  the  hall.  Roger,  buried  deep 
in  his  paper,  heard  the  heavy  street  door  close.  He 
looked  up  with  a  feverish  sigh — and  saw  at  the  open  door 
of  his  study  George  and  Betsy  standing,  curious,  solemn 
and  wide  eyed.  How  long  had  they  been  listening? 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THERE  came  a  season  of  sleet  and  rain  when  the  smaller 
children  were  shut  indoors  and  it  was  hard  to  keep  them 
amused.  They  did  not  look  well,  and  Edith  was  worried. 
She  had  always  dreaded  the  spring,  and  to  carry  her  family 
safely  through  she  had  taken  them,  in  former  years,  to 
Atlantic  City  for  two  weeks.  That  of  course  was  impos 
sible  now.  Trouble  was  bound  to  come,  she  thought. 
And  it  was  not  long  in  coming.  Bobby,  who  was  ten 
years  old  and  went  to  school  with  his  brother  George, 
caught  a  wretched  cold  one  day.  Edith  popped  him  into 
bed,  but  despite  her  many  precautions  he  gave  his  cold  to 
Bruce  and  Tad. 

" Suppose  I  ask  Allan  Baird  to  come,"  Deborah  sug 
gested.  "He's  wonderful  with  children,  you  know." 

Edith  curtly  accepted  his  services.  She  felt  he  had 
been  sent  for  to  prevent  her  getting  Doctor  Lake.  But 
she  said  nothing.  She  would  wait.  Through  long  hard 
days  and  longer  nights  she  slaved  upstairs.  All  Deborah's 
proffers  of  aid  she  declined.  She  kept  Elizabeth  home 
from  school  to  help  her  with  the  many  meals,  the  medicines 
and  the  endless  task  of  keeping  her  lively  patients  in  bed. 
She  herself  played  with  them  by  the  hour,  while  the  ache 
in  her  head  was  a  torment.  At  night  she  was  up  at  the 
slightest  sound.  Heavy  circles  came  under  her  eyes. 
Within  a  few  days  her  baby,  Bruce,  had  developed  pneu 
monia. 

That  evening  after  dinner,  while  Deborah  was  sitting 
with  Roger  in  the  living  room,  she  heard  her  sister  coming 
downstairs.  She  listened  acutely,  and  glancing  around 
she  saw  that  Roger  was  listening,  too.  Edith  passed  the 

254 


HIS  FAMILY  255 

doorway  and  went  on  down  the  hall,  where  they  heard 
her  voice  at  the  telephone.  She  came  back  and  looked 
in  at  the  door. 

"I've  called  Doctor  Lake/'  she  said.  "I've  just  taken 
Bruce's  temperature.  It's  a  hundred  and  five  and  two 
fifths."  Deborah  glanced  up  with  a  start. 

"Oh,  Edith!"  she  said  softly.  Her  sister  turned  and 
looked  at  her. 

"I  ought  to  have  had  him  before,"  she  said.  "When 
he  comes,  please  bring  him  right  up  to  the  room."  And 
she  hurried  upstairs. 

"Pshaw!"  breathed  Roger  anxiously.  He  had  seen 
Bruce  an  hour  ago;  and  the  sight  of  the  tiny  boy,  so  ex 
hausted  and  so  still,  had  given  him  a  sudden  scare.  Could 
it  be  that  this  would  happen?  Roger  rose  and  walked  the 
floor.  Edith  was  right,  he  told  himself,  they  should  have 
had  Lake  long  before.  And  they  would  have,  by  George, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Deborah's  interference!  He  glanced 
at  her  indignantly.  Bringing  in  Baird  to  save  money,  eh? 
Well,  it  was  just  about  time  they  stopped  saving  money  on 
their  own  flesh  and  blood!  What  had  Bruce  to  do  with 
tenement  babies?  But  he  had  had  tenement  treatment, 
just  that!  Deborah  had  had  her  way  at  last  with  Edith's 
children,  and  one  of  them  might  have  to  pay  with  its  life ! 
Again  Roger  glared  at  his  silent  daughter.  And  now,  even 
in  his  excited  state,  he  noticed  how  still  and  rigid  she  was, 
how  unnatural  the  look  she  bent  on  the  book  held  tightly 
in  her  hands. 

Still  Deborah  said  nothing.  She  could  feel  her  father's 
anger.  Both  he  and  Edith  held  her  to  blame.  She  felt 
herself  in  a  position  where  she  could  not  move  a  hand. 
She  was  stunned,  and  could  not  think  clearly.  A  vivid 
picture  was  in  her  mind,  vivid  as  a  burning  flame  which  left 
everything  else  in  darkness.  It  was  of  Bruce,  one  adorable 
baby,  fighting  for  breath.  "What  would  I  do  if  he  were 
mine?" 


256  HIS  FAMILY 

When  the  doctor  arrived  she  took  him  upstairs  and  then 
came  down  to  her  father. 

"Well?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  We'll  have  to  wait."  And  they  both 
sat  silent.  At  last  they  heard  a  door  open  and  close,  and 
presently  steps  coming  down  the  stairs.  Roger  went  out 
into  the  hall: 

"  Come  right  in  here,  doctor,  won't  you?  I  want  to  hear 
about  this  myself." 

"Very  well,  sir."  And  Lake  entered  the  room,  with 
Edith  close  behind  him.  He  took  no  notice  of  anyone 
else.  "Write  this  down,"  he  said  to  her.  "And  give  it 
to  the  nurse  when  she  comes."  A  heavy  man  of  middle 
age,  with  curious  dark  impassive  eyes  that  at  times  showed 
an  ironic  light,  Lake  was  a  despot  in  a  world  of  mothers  to 
whom  his  word  was  law.  He  was  busy  to-night,  with  no 
time  to  waste,  and  his  low  harsh  voice  now  rattled  out 
orders  which  Edith  wrote  down  in  feverish  haste — an 
hourly  schedule,  night  and  day.  He  named  a  long  list  of 
things  needed  at  once.  "Night  nurse  will  be  here  in  an 
hour,"  he  ended.  "Day  nurse,  to-morrow,  eight  a.  m. 
Get  sleep  yourself  and  plenty  of  it.  As  it  is  you're  not  fit 
to  take  care  of  a  cat."  Abruptly  he  turned  and  left  the 
room.  Edith  followed.  The  street  door  closed,  and  in  a 
moment  after  that  his  motor  was  off  with  a  muffled  roar. 
Edith  came  back,  picked  up  her  directions  and  turned  to 
her  sister: 

"Will  you  go  up  and  sit  with  Bruce?  I'll  telephone  the 
druggist,"  she  said. 

Deborah  went  to  the  sick  room.  Bruce's  small  face, 
peaked  and  gray  in  the  soft  dim  light,  turned  as  she  en 
tered  and  carne  to  the  bed. 

"Well,  dear?"  she  whispered.  The  small  boy's  eyes, 
large  and  heavy  with  fever,  looked  straight  into  hers. 

"Sick,"  said  the  baby  hoarsely.  The  next  instant  he 
tossed  up  his  hands  and  went  through  a  spasm,  trying  to 


HIS  FAMILY  257 

breathe.  It  passed,  he  relaxed  a  little,  and  again  stared 
solemnly  at  his  aunt.  "Sick,"  he  repeated.  "Werv 
sick." 

Deborah  sat  silent.  The  child  had  another  fight  for  his 
breath;  and  this  time  as  he  did  so,  Deborah's  body  con 
tracted,  too.  A  few  moments  later  Edith  came  in.  Deb 
orah  returned  downstairs,  and  for  over  an  hour  she  sat  by 
herself.  Roger  was  in  his  study,  Betsy  and  George  had 
gone  to  bed.  The  night  nurse  arrived  and  was  taken  up 
stairs.  Still  Deborah's  mind  felt  numb  and  cold.  In 
stinctively  again  and  again  it  kept  groping  toward  one 
point:  "If  I  had  a  baby  as  sick  as  that,  what  would  I  do? 
What  would  I  do?" 

When  the  doorbell  rang  again,  she  frowned,  rose  quickly 
and  went  to  the  door.  It  was  Allan. 

"Allan — come  in  here,  will  you?"  she  said,  and  he  fol 
lowed  her  into  the  living  room. 

"What  is  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Bruce  is  worse." 

"Oh— I'm  sorry.     Why  didn't  Edith  let  me  know?" 

"She  had  Lake  to-night,"  said  Deborah.  He  knitted 
his  brows  in  annoyance,  then  smiled. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  that,"  he  replied.  "I'm  rather 
glad.  She'll  feel  easier  now.  What  did  he  tell  her?" 

"He  seemed  to  consider  it  serious — by  the  number  of 
things  he  ordered." 

"Two  nurses,  of  course — " 

"Yes,  day  and  night."  Deborah  was  silent  a  moment. 
"I  may  be  wrong,"  she  continued,  "but  I  still  feel  sure 
the  child  will  live.  But  I  know  it  means  a  long  hard  fight. 
The  expense  of  it  all  will  be  heavy." 

"Well?" 

"Whatever  it  is,  I'll  meet  it,"  she  said.  "Father 
can't,  he  has  reached  the  end.  But  even  if  he  could  help 
still,  it  wouldn't  make  much  difference  in  what  I've 
been  deciding.  Because  when  I  was  with  Bruce  to-night, 


258  HIS  FAMILY 

I  saw  as  clear  as  I  see  you  now  that  if  I  had  a  child 
like  that — as  sick  as  that — I'd  sacrifice  anything — every 
thing — schools,  tenement  children,  thousands!  I'd  use 
the  money  which  should  have  been  theirs,  and  the  time  and 
the  attention!  I'd  shut  them  all  out,  they  could  starve 
if  they  liked!  I'd  be  like  Edith — exactly!  I'd  center  on 
this  one  child  of  mine!" 

Deborah  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  stern  and  gleaming  with 
her  pain.  And  she  continued  sharply: 

"But  I  don't  mean  to  shut  those  children  out!  And 
so  it's  clear  as  day  to  me  that  I  can't  ever  marry  you! 
That  baby  to-night  was  the  finishing  stroke!" 

She  made  a  quick  restless  movement.  Baird  leaned 
slowly  forward.  Her  hands  in  her  lap  were  clenched  to 
gether.  He  took  them  both  and  held  them  hard. 

"No,  this  isn't  clear,"  he  said.  "I  can  feel  it  in  your 
hands.  This  is  nerves.  This  is  the  child  upstairs.  This 
is  Edith  in  the  house.  This  is  school,  the  end  of  the  long 
winter's  strain." 

"No,  it's  what  I've  decided!" 

"But  this  is  the  wrong  decision,"  Allan  answered 
steadily. 

"It's  made!" 

"Not  yet,  it  isn't,  not  to-night.  We  won't  talk  of  it 
now,  you're  in  no  condition."  Deborah's  wide  sensitive 
lips  began  to  quiver  suddenly: 

"We  will  talk  of  it  now,  or  never  at  all!  I  want  it 
settled — done  with!  I've  had  enough — it's  killing  me!" 

"No,"  was  Allan's  firm  reply,  "in  a  few  days  things  will 
change.  Edith's  child  will  be  out  of  danger,  your  other 
troubles  will  clear  away!" 

"But  what  of  next  winter,  and  the  next?  What  of 
Edith's  children?  Can't  you  see  what  a  load  they  are  on 
my  father?  Can't  you  see  he's  ageing  fast?  " 

"Suppose  he  dies,"  Baird  answered.  "It  will  leave 
them  on  your  hands.  You'll  have  these  children,  won't 


HIS  FAMILY  259 

you,  whether  you  marry  or  whether  you  don't!  And  so 
will  I!  I'm  their  guardian!" 

"That  won't  be  the  same,"  she  cried,  "as  having  chil 
dren  of  our  own — " 

"Look  into  my  eyes." 

"  Pm  looking — "    Her  own  eyes  were  bright  with  tears. 

"Why  are  you  always  so  afraid  of  becoming  a  mother?" 
Allan  asked.  In  his  gruff  low  voice  was  a  fierce  appeal. 
"It's  this  obsession  in  your  mind  that  you'll  be  a  mother 
like  Edith.  And  that's  absurd!  You  never  will!  You 
say  you're  afraid  of  not  keeping  school  the  first  thing  in 
your  life !  But  you  always  do  and  you  always  will !  You're 
putting  it  ahead  of  me  now!" 

"Yes,  I  can  put  it  ahead  of  you!  But  I  couldn't  put  it 
ahead  of  my  child!"  He  winced  at  this  and  she  noticed  it. 
"Because  you  are  strong,  and  the  child  would  be  weak! 
The  child  would  be  like  Bruce  to-night!" 

"Are  you  sure  if  you  marry  you  must  have  a  child?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  huskily,  "if  I  married  you  I'd 
want  a  child.  And  that  want  in  me  would  grow  and 
grow  until  it  made  both  of  us  wretched.  I'm  that  kind  of 
a  woman.  That's  why  my  work  has  succeeded  so  far — 
because  I've  a  passion  for  children!  They're  not  my 
work,  they're  my  very  life!"  She  bowed  her  head,  her 
mouth  set  hard.  "But  so  are  you,"  she  whispered. 
"And  since  this  is  settled,  Allan,  what  do  you  think? 
Shall  we  try  to  go  on — working  together  side  by  side — 
seeing  each  other  every  day  as  we  have  been  doing  all 
these  months?  Rather  hard  on  both  of  us,  don't  you 
think?  I  do,  I  feel  that  way,"  she  said.  Again  her  features 
quivered.  "The  kind  of  feeling  I  have — 'for  you — would 
make  that  rather — difficult!" 

His  grip  tightened  on  her  hands. 

" I  won't  give  you  up,"  he  said.  "Later  you  will  change 
your  mind." 

He  left  the  room  and  went  out  of  the  house.    Deborah 


260  HIS  FAMILY 

sat  rigid.  She  trembled  and  the  tears  came.  She  brushed 
them  angrily  away.  Struggling  to  control  herself,  pres 
ently  she  grew  quieter.  Frowning,  with  her  clear  gray  eyes 
intently  staring  before  her,  she  did  not  see  her  father  come 
into  the  doorway.  He  stopped  with  a  jerk  at  sight  of  her 
face. 

" What's  the  matter?"  he  asked.    She  started. 

"Nothing's  the  matter!    How  is  Bruce?" 

"I  don't  know.    Who  went  out  a  few  minutes  ago?" 

"  Allan  Baird,"  she  answered. 

"Oh.    You  explained  to  him,  of  course,  about  Lake — " 

"Yes,  he  understands,"  she  said.  "He  won't  come  here 
after  this—" 

Roger  looked  at  her  sharply,  wondering  just  what  she 
meant.  He  hesitated.  No,  he  would  wait. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  and  went  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

ON  the  morrow  Bruce  did  not  grow  better.  If  anything, 
the  child  grew  worse.  But  by  the  next  morning  the  crisis 
had  passed.  In  the  house  the  tension  relaxed,  and  Roger 
suddenly  felt  so  weak  that  he  went  to  see  his  own  physi 
cian.  They  had  a  long  and  serious  talk.  Later  he  went 
to  his  office,  but  he  gave  little  heed  to  his  work.  Sitting 
there  at  his  desk,  he  stared  through  the  window  far  out 
over  the  city.  A  plan  was  forming  in  his  mind. 

At  home  that  night,  at  dinner,  he  kept  watching  Deb 
orah,  who  looked  tired  and  pale  and  rather  relaxed.  And 
as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  the  house  he  telephoned  Allan 
to  come  at  once. 

"It's  something  which  can't  wait,"  he  urged. 

"Very  well,  I'll  come  right  up." 

When  Baird  arrived  a  little  later,  Roger  opened  the 
door  himself,  and  they  went  back  into  his  study. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.    "  Smoke,  Allan?  " 

"No,  thanks."  Baird  looked  doubly  tall  and  lean,  his 
face  had  a  gaunt  appearance;  and  as  he  sat  down,  his  lithe 
supple  right  hand  slowly  closed  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"Now  then,"  began  Roger,  "there  are  two  things  we 
want  to  get  clear  on.  The  first  is  about  yourself  and 
Deborah.  There  has  been  trouble,  hasn't  there?" 

"Yes." 

"She  has  made  up  her  mind  not  to  marry  you." 

"Yes." 

"I  guessed  as  much."  And  Roger  paused.  "Do  you 
mind  my  asking  questions?" 

"No—" 

261 


262  HIS  FAMILY 

"Are  you  still  in  love  with  her,  Allan?" 

"I  am." 

"And  she  with  you?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Then  it's  the  same  old  trouble." 

"Yes."  And  he  told  a  part  of  what  she  had  said.  As 
he  talked  in  clear,  terse,  even  tones,  Baird's  steady  eyes 
had  a  tortured  light,  the  look  of  a  man  who  has  almost 
reached  the  end  of  his  endurance.  Roger  smoked  in 
silence. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"Wait,"  said  Allan,  "a  few  days  more.  Then  try  again. 
If  I  fail  I'm  through."  Roger  shot  a  quick  look  at  him. 

"I  don't  think  you'll  fail,  my  boy — and  what's  more 
I  think  I  can  help  you.  This  is  a  large  house,  Allan — 
there's  more  in  it  than  you  know.  My  second  point  con 
cerns  myself.  I'm  going  to  die  within  a  year." 

As  Baird  turned  on  him  suddenly,  Roger  grimly  smiled 
and  said,  "We  won't  go  into  thp  details,  but  I've  been 
examined  lately  and  I  have  quite  positive  knowledge  of 
what  I've  suspected  for  some  time.  So  far,  1  have  told 
no  one  but  you.  And  I'm  telling  you  only  because  of  the 
bearing  it  has  on  Deborah."  Roger  leaned  forward 
heavily.  "She's  the  one  of  my  daughters  who  means 
the  most,  now  that  I'm  so  near  the  end.  When  I  die  next 
year  that  may  be  all — I  may  simply  end — a  blank,  a 
grave — I  am  not  sure.  But  I've  made  up  my  mind  above 
everything  else  to  see  Deborah  happy  before  I  go.  And 
I  mean  to  do  it  by  setting  her  free — so  free  I  think  it  will 
frighten  her." 

Roger  went  on  to  explain  his  plan,  and  they  talked  to 
gether  for  some  time. 

Another  week  had  soon  gone  by.  Bruce  still  recovered 
rapidly,  and  the  other  sick  children  were  up  and  about. 
Deborah,  in  the  meantime,  had  barely  been  in  the  house 


HIS  FAMILY  263 

at  all.  But  late  on  Saturday  evening  Roger  found  her  in 
her  room.  She  was  working.  He  came  behind  her. 

" What  is  it,  dad?" 

"Busy,  eh?"  He  hesitated,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  with  a  little  affectionate  pressure.  "You've 
kept  so  busy  lately,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  had  time  to  see 
anything  of  you.  How's  your  work  going?" 

"Much  better,  thanks — now  that  the  winter  is  over." 

He  questioned  her  about  her  schools.  And  then  after  a 
brief  pause, 

"Well,  daughter,"  he  said,  "it  has  been  a  great  fight, 
and  I'm  proud  of  you  for  it.  And  if  I've  got  anything  to 
say — "  his  hand  was  still  on  her  shoulder,  and  he  felt  her 
tighten  suddenly — "it  isn't  by  way  of  criticism — -please 
be  sure  of  that  ahead.  In  this  damnable  war  my  faith  in 
men  has  been  badly  shaken  up.  Humanity  seems  to  me 
still  a  child — a  child  who  needs  to  go  to  school.  God 
knows  we  need  men  and  women  like  you — and  I'm  proud 
of  all  you've  accomplished,  I'd  be  the  last  man  to  hold 
you  back.  I  only  want  to  help  you  go  on — by  seeing  to 
it  that  you  are  free — from  anything  which  can  hinder  you." 

He  stopped  again  for  a  moment. 

"To  begin  with,"  he  said,  "I  understand  you're  not 
going  to  marry  Allan  Baird."  She  stirred  slightly: 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"Yes — I  asked  him,"  Roger  replied.  "I  had  Allan  here 
a  few  nights  ago,  and  he  told  me  you  had  decided  to  give 
up  your  happiness  for  the  sake  of  all  those  children  in  that 
big  family  of  yours.  You  felt  you  must  keep  yourself 
free  for  them.  Very  well,  if  that  is  your  decision  I  propose 
to  clear  the  way."  She  looked  intently  up  at  his  face. 
"You're  not  free  now,"  he  continued.  "We  have  Edith 
and  her  children  here.  And  I'm  growing  old — that  has 
got  to  be  thought  of — I  don't  want  to  leave  them  on  your 
hands.  So  as  soon  as  the  baby  is  well  enough,  I'm  going 
to  move  them  up  to  the  mountains — not  only  lor  the  sum- 


264  HIS  FAMILY 

mer — they  are  to  stay  the  whole  year  'round.  From  this 
time  on  they're  to  make  it  their  home." 

"Father!  But  they  can't  do  that!  Think  of  the  win 
ters!"  Deborah  cried. 

"It's  already  settled,"  he  answered.  "I've  talked  to 
Edith  and  she  has  agreed.  She  has  always  loved  the  farm, 
and  it  will  be  good  for  her  children.  In  the  meantime  I've 
been  talking  to  George.  'George,'  I  told  him,  'I'm  going 
to  talk  to  you,  man  to  man,  about  a  man's  job  I  want 
you  to  tackle.'" 

"The  farm?    But,  dearie!    He's  only  a  boy!" 

"He's  nearly  seventeen,"  said  Roger,  "and  a  young 
moose  for  his  age.  And  old  Dave  Royce  will  still  be  there. 
It's  the  work  George  has  been  dreaming  about  ever  since 
he  was  a  child.  You  should  have  seen  how  he  was  thrilled 
by  the  scheme.  I  told  him  we'd  spend  the  summer  to 
gether  up  there  laying  all  our  plans,  investing  our  money 
carefully  to  make  every  dollar  count." 

"What  money?"  Deborah  sharply  asked.  But  her 
father  was  talking  steadily  on: 

"We  already  have  a  fine  lot  of  cattle.  We'll  add  to  it 
and  enlarge  the  barn  and  put  in  some  new  equipment. 
In  short,  we'll  put  it  in  fine  shape,  make  it  a  first  class 
dairy  farm.  'And  then,  George,'  I  said  to  him,  'I'm  going 
to  turn  it  over  to  you.  I  shall  give  the  farm  to  your  mother, 
and  the  rest  of  the  money  I  have  I  mean  to  invest  in  her 
name  down  here,  so  that  she'll  have  a  small  income  until 
you  can  make  your  dairy  pay.' ' 

"What  money  are  you  speaking  of?"  Deborah's  voice 
was  thick  and  hard,  her  sensitive  lips  were  parted  and 
6he  was  breathing  quickly. 

"I've  sold  the  house,"  he  told  her.  Convulsively  she 
gripped  his  arms: 

"Then  tell  me  where  you  mean  to  live!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  live — I'm  going  to  die — very  soon — 
I  have  definite  knowledge." 


HIS  FAMILY  265 

Without  speaking  Deborah  rose;  her  face  went  white. 
Her  father  kept  tight  hold  of  her  hands,  and  he  felt  them 
trembling,  growing  cold. 

" You're  soon  to  be  free  of  everyone,"  he  continued 
painfully.  "I  know  this  is  hurting  you,  but  I  see  so 
plain,  so  plain,  my  child,  just  what  it  is  I've  got  to  do. 
I'm  trying  to  clear  the  way  for  you  to  make  a  simple  def 
inite  choice —  a  choice  which  is  going  to  settle  your  life  one 
way  or  the  other.  I  want  to  make  sure  you  see  what 
you're  doing.  Because  you  mean  so  much  to  me.  We're 
flesh  and  blood — eh,  my  daughter? — and  in  this  family 
of  ours  we've  been  the  closest  ones  of  all!"  She  seemed  to 
sway  a  little. 

"You're  not  going  to  die!"  she  whispered. 

"So  it  hurts  you  to  lose  me,"  he  replied.  "It  will  be 
hard  to  be  so  free.  Would  you  rather  not  have  had  me  at 
all?  I've  been  quite  a  load  on  your  back,  you  know.  A 
fearful  job  you  had  of  it,  dragging  me  up  when  I  was  down. 
And  since  then  Edith  and  Bruce  and  the  rest,  what  bur 
dens  they  have  been  at  times.  What  sharp  worries,  heavy 
sorrows,  days  and  nights  you  and  I  have  gone  through, 
when  we  should  have  been  quietly  resting — free — to  keep 
up  our  strength  for  our  next  day's  work.  Suppose  you  had 
missed  them,  lived  alone,  would  you  have  worked  better? 
You  don't  know.  But  you  will  know  soon,  you're  to  give 
it  a  trial.  For  I've  cleared  the  way — -so  that  if  you  throw 
over  Baird  to  be  free  you  shall  get  the  freedom  you  feel 
you  need!" 

"Father!  Please!  Is  this  fair?  Is  this  kind?"  She 
asked  in  a  harsh  frightened  tone.  Her  eyes  were  wet  with 
angry  tears. 

"This  isn't  a  time  to  be  kind,  my  dear."  His  voice  was 
quivering  like  her  own.  "I'm  bungling  it — I'm  bungling 
it — but  you  must  let  me  stumble  along  and  try  to  show 
you  what  I  mean.  You  will  have  your  work,  your  crowded 
schools,  to  which  you'll  be  able  to  give  your  life.  But  I 


266  HIS  FAMILY 

look  ahead,  I  who  know  you — and  I  don't  see  you  happy,  I 
don't  even  see  you  whole.  For  you  there  will  be  no  family. 
None  of  the  intimate  sorrows  and  joys  that  have  been  in 
this  house  will  come  to  you.  I  look  back  and  I  see  them 
all — for  a  man  who  has  come  so  near  the  end  gets  a  larger 
vision."  He  shut  his  eyes,  his  jaw  set  tight.  "I  look 
into  my  family  back  and  back,  and  I  see  how  it  has  been 
made  of  many  generations.  Certain  figures  stand  out  in 
my  mind — they  cover  over  a  hundred  years.  And  I  see 
how  much  they've  meant  to  me.  I  see  that  I've  been  one 
of  them — a  link  in  a  long  chain  of  lives — all  inter-bound 
and  reaching  on.  In  my  life  they  have  all  been  here — as  I 
shall  be  in  lives  to  come. 

"And  this  is  what  I  want  for  you."  He  held  her  close 
a  moment.  The  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 
"Until  now  you  have  been  one  of  us,  too.  You  have 
never  once  been  free.  You  have  been  the  one  in  this  house 
to  step  in  and  take  hold  and  try  to  decide  what's  best  to  be 
done.  I'm  not  putting  you  up  on  a  pedestal,  I  don't  say 
you've  made  no  mistakes — but  I  say  you're  the  kind  of 
a  woman  who  craves  what's  in  a  family.  You're  the 
one  of  my  daughters  who  has  loved  this  house  the  most!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I've  loved  this  house — " 

"But  now  for  you  all  this  will  stop — quite  suddenly," 
he  told  her.  "This  house  of  ours  will  soon  be  sold.  And 
within  a  few  months  I  shall  be  dead,  and  your  family  will 
have  dropped  out  of  your  life." 

"Stop!  Can't  you?  Stop!  It's  brutal!  It  isn't  true 
about  you!"  she  cried.  "I  won't  believe  it!"  Her  voice 
broke. 

"Go  and  see  my  physician,"  he  said. 

"How  long  have  you  known  it?  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?" 

"Because  we  had  troubles  enough  as  it  was,  other  things 
to  think  of.  But  there's  only  one  thing  now,  this  freedom 
you  are  facing." 


HIS  FAMILY  267 

" Please!  Please!"  she  cried  imploringly.  "I  don't 
want  to  talk  of  myself  but  of  you!  This  physician — " 

"No,"  he  answered  with  stern  pain,  "you'll  have  to  hear 
me  out,  my  child.  We're  talking  of  you — of  you  alone 
when  I  am  gone.  How  will  it  be?  Are  you  quite  sure? 
You  will  have  your  work,  that  vision  of  yours,  and  I  know 
how  close  it  has  been  to  you,  vivid  and  warm,  almost  like 
a  friend.  But  so  was  my  business  once  like  that,  when  I 
was  as  young  as  you.  And  the  business  grew  and  it 
got  cold — impersonal,  a  mere  machine.  Thank  God  I 
had  a  family.  Isn't  your  work  growing  too?  Are  you 
sure  it  won't  become  a  machine?  And  won't  you  lose 
touch  with  the  children  then,  unless  you  have  a  child  of 
your  own?  Friends  won't  be  enough,  you'll  find,  they're 
not  bound  up  into  yourself.  The  world  may  reach  a  stage 
at  last  where  we  shall  live  on  in  the  lives  of  all — we  may 
all  be  one  big  family.  But  that  time  is  still  far  off — we 
hold  to  our  own  flesh  and  blood.  And  so  I'm  sure  it  will 
be  with  you.  You  see  you  have  been  young,  my  dear,  and 
your  spirit  has  been  fresh  and  new.  But  how  are  you 
going  to  keep  it  so,  without  the  ties  you've  always 
had?"  He  felt  the  violent  clutch  of  her  hand. 

"You  won't  die!"  she  whispered.  But  he  went  on  re 
lentlessly: 

"And  what  will  you  do  without  Allan  Baird?  For  you 
see  you  have  not  even  worked  alone.  You  have  had  this 
man  who  has  loved  you  there.  I've  seen  how  much  he 
has  helped  you — how  you  have  grown  and  he  has  grown 
since  you  two  got  together.  And  if  you  throw  him  over 
now,  it  seems  to  me  you  are  not  only  losing  what  has  done 
the  most  for  your  work,  but  you're  running  away  from 
life  as  well.  You've  never  won  by  doing  that,  you've 
always  won  by  meeting  life,  never  evading  it,  taking  it  all, 
living  it  full,  taking  chances!  If  you  marry  Baird,  I  see 
you  both  go  on  together  in  your  work,  while  in  your  home 
you  struggle  through  the  troubles,  tangles,  joys  and  griefs 


268  HIS  FAMILY 

which  most  of  us  mortals  know  so  well!  I  see  you  in  a 
world  of  children,  but  with  children,  too,  of  your  own — to 
keep  your  spirit  always  young!  Living  on  in  your  chil 
dren's  lives!" 

Roger  stopped  abruptly.  He  groped  for  something 
more  to  say. 

"On  the  one  side,  all  that,"  he  muttered,  "and  on  the 
other,  a  lonely  life  which  will  soon  grow  old." 

There  fell  a  dangerous  silence.  And  sharply  without 
warning,  the  influence,  deep  and  invisible,  of  many  genera 
tions  of  stolid  folk  in  New  England  made  itself  felt  in  each 
of  them.  Father  and  daughter  grew  awkward,  both. 
The  talk  had  been  too  emotional.  Each  made,  as  by  an 
instinct,  a  quick  strong  effort  at  self-control,  and  felt  about 
for  some  way  to  get  back  upon  their  old  easy  footing. 
Roger  turned  to  his  daughter.  Her  head  was  still  bent, 
her  hands  clasped  tight,  but  she  was  frowning  down  at 
them  now,  although  her  face  was  still  wet  with  tears.  She 
drew  a  deep  unsteady  breath. 

"Well,  Deborah,"  he  said  simply,  "here  I've  gone 
stumbling  on  like  a  fool.  I  don't  know  what  I've  said  or 
how  you  have  listened." 

"I've  listened,"  she  said  thickly. 

"I  have  tried,"  he  went  on  in  a  steadier  tone,  "to  give 
you  some  feeling  of  what  is  ahead — and  to  speak  for  your 
mother  as  well  as  myself.  And  more  than  that — much 
more  than  that — for  the  world  has  changed  since  she  was 
here.  God  knows  I've  tried  to  be  modern."  A  humorous 
glint  came  into  his  eyes,  "Downright  modern,"  he  de 
clared.  "  Have  I  asked  you  to  give  up  your  career?  Not 
at  all,  I've  asked  you  to  marry  Baird,  and  go  right  on  with 
him  in  your  work.  And  if  you  can't  marry  Allan  Baird, 
after  what  he  has  done  for  you,  how  in  God's  name  can 
you  modern  women  ever  marry  anyone?  Now  what  do 
you  say?  Will  you  marry  him?  Don't  laugh  at  me! 
I'm  serious!  Talk!" 


HIS  FAMILY  269 

But  Deborah  was  laughing — although  her  father  felt 
her  hands  still  cold  and  trembling  in  his.  Her  gray  eyes, 
bright  and  luminous,  were  shining  up  into  his  own. 

"What  a  time  you've  been  having,  haven't  you,  dear!" 
his  daughter  cried  unsteadily.  "Fairly  lying  awake  at 
night  and  racking  your  brains  for  everything  modern  I've 
ever  said — to  turn  it  and  twist  it  and  use  it  against 
me!" 

"Well?"  he  demanded.     "How  does  it  twist?" 

"It  twists  hard,  thank  you,"  she  declared.  "You've 
turned  and  twisted  me  about  till  I  barely  see  how  I  can 
live  at  all!" 

"You  can,  though!     Marry  Allan  Baird!" 

"I'll  think  it  over— later  on." 

"What  is  there  left  to  think  about?  Can  you  point  to 
one  hole  in  all  I've  said?" 

"Yes,  a  good  many — and  one  right  off." 

"Out  with  it!" 

"You're  not  dying,"  Deborah  told  him  calmly,  "I  feel 
quite  certain  you'll  live  for  years." 

"Oh,  you  do,  eh — then  see  my  physician!" 

"I  will,  I'll  see  him  to-morrow.  How  long  did  you  give 
yourself?  Just  a  few  months?" 

"No,  he  said  it  might  be  more,"  admitted  Roger  grudg 
ingly.  "If  I  had  no  worries  to  wear  me  out — " 

"Me,  you  mean." 

"Exactly." 

"Well,  you've  worried  quite  enough.  You're  going  to 
leave  it  to  me  to  decide." 

"Very  well,"  he  agreed.  He  looked  at  her.  "You 
have  listened — hard?"  he  gruffly  asked. 

"Yes,  dear."  Her  hands  slowly  tightened  on  his.  "But 
don't  speak  of  this  again.  You're  to  leave  it  to  me.  You 
promise?" 

"Yes." 

And  Roger  left  her. 


270  HIS  FAMILY 

He  went  to  bed  but  he  could  not  sleep.  With  a  sudden 
sag  in  his  spirits  he  felt  what  a  bungler  he  had  been.  He 
was  not  used  to  these  solemn  talks,  he  told  himself  irately. 
What  a  fool  to  try  it!  And  how  had  Deborah  taken  it  all? 
He  did  not  mind  her  laughter,  nor  that  lighter  tone  of 
hers.  It  was  only  her  way  of  ending  the  talk,  an  easy  way 
out  for  both  of  them.  But  what  had  she  thought  under 
neath?  Had  his  points  gone  home?  He  tried  to  remem 
ber  them.  Pshaw!  He  had  been  too  excited,  and  he 
could  recall  scarcely  anything.  He  had  not  meant  to 
speak  of  Baird — he  had  meant  to  leave  him  out!  Yes, 
how  he  must  have  bungled  it !  Doubtless  she  was  smiling 
still.  Even  the  news  about  himself  she  had  not  taken 
seriously. 

But  as  he  thought  about  that  news,  Roger's  mood  com 
pletely  changed.  The  talk  of  the  evening  grew  remote, 
his  family  no  longer  real,  mere  little  figures,  shadowy,  re 
ceding  swiftly  far  away.  .  .  Much  quieter  now,  he  lay  a 
long  time  listening  to  the  life  of  the  house,  the  occasional 
sounds  from  the  various  rooms.  From  the  nursery  ad 
joining  came  little  Bruce's  piping  laugh,  and  Roger  could 
hear  the  nurse  moving  about.  Afterwards  for  a  long  time 
he  could  hear  only  creaks  and  breathings.  Never  had  the 
old  house  seemed  so  like  a  living  creature.  For  nearly  forty 
years  it  had  held  all  that  he  had  loved  and  known,  all  he 
had  been  sure  of.  Outside  of  it  was  the  strange,  the  new, 
the  uncertain,  the  vast  unknown,  stretching  away  to  in 
finity.  .  .  . 

Again  he  heard  Bruce's  gay  little  laugh.  What  did  it 
remind  him  of?  He  puzzled.  Then  he  had  it.  Edith 
had  been  a  baby  here.  Her  cradle  had  been  in  this  very 
room,  close  by  the  bed.  And  how  she  had  laughed! 
What  gurgles  and  ripples  of  bursting  glee!  The  first 
child  in  his  family.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ON  the  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  Deborah  made  an 
appointment  with  her  father's  physician,  and  had  a  long 
talk  with  him  at  his  house.  Upon  her  return  she  went  to 
her  room  and  stayed  there  until  evening,  but  when  she 
came  down  to  supper  her  manner  was  as  usual.  At  the 
table  she  joined  in  the  talk  of  Edith  and  the  children,  al 
ready  deep  in  their  preparations  for  the  move  up  to  the 
farm.  George  could  hardly  wait  to  start.  That  life  would 
be  a  change  indeed  in  Edith's  plans  for  her  family,  and 
as  they  talked  about  it  now  the  tension  of  hostility  which 
had  so  long  existed  between  the  two  sisters  passed  away. 
Each  knew  the  clash  had  come  to  an  end,  that  they 
would  live  together  no  more;  and  as  though  in  remorse 
they  drew  close,  Deborah  with  her  suggestions,  Edith  in 
her  friendly  way  of  taking  and  discussing  each  one.  Then 
Deborah  went  again  to  her  room.  Her  room  was  just  over 
Roger's,  and  waking  several  times  in  the  night  he  heard 
his  daughter  walking  the  floor. 

The  next  day  she  was  up  early  and  off  to  her  school 
before  he  came  down.  It  was  a  fine  spring  morning,  Roger 
had  had  a  good  night's  sleep,  and  as  he  walked  to  his  office 
he  was  buoyed  up  by  a  feeling  both  of  hope  for  his  daugh 
ter  and  of  solid  satisfaction  in  himself  as  he  remembered 
all  that  he  £ad  said  to  her.  Curiously  enough  he  could  re 
call  every  word  of  it  now.  Every  point  which  he  had  made 
rose  up  before  him  vividly.  How  clear  he  had  been,  how 
simple  and  true,  and  yet  with  what  a  tremendous  effect 
he  had  piled  the  points  one  on  the  other.  "By  George," 
he  thought  with  a  little  glow,  "for  a  fellow  who's  never 
been  in  a  pulpit  I  put  up  a  devilish  strong  appeal."  And  he 

271 


272  HIS  FAMILY 

added  sagely,  "Let  it  work  on  the  girl,  give  it  a  chance. 
She'll  come  out  of  this  all  right.  This  idea  some  fellows 
have,  that  every  woman  is  born  a  fool,  isn't  fair,  it  isn't 
true.  Just  let  a  line  of  argument  be  presented  to  her 
strong  and  clear — straight  from  the  shoulder — by  some 
man — " 

And  again  with  a  tingle  of  pleasure  his  mind  recurred 
to  his  sermon.  His  pleasures  had  been  few  of  late,  so  he 
dwelt  on  this  little  glow  of  pride  and  made  the  most  of  it 
while  it  was  here. 

At  the  office,  as  he  entered  his  room,  he  stopped  with  a 
slight  shock  of  surprise.  John,  standing  on  his  crutches  in 
front  of  a  large  table,  had  been  going  through  the  morn 
ing's  mail,  sorting  out  the  routine  letters  Roger  did  not 
need  to  see.  To-day  he  had  just  finished  and  was  staring 
at  the  window.  The  light  fell  full  on  his  sallow  face  and 
showed  an  amazing  happiness.  At  Roger's  step  he  started. 

"Well,  Johnny,  how  goes  it  this  morning?" 

"Fine,  thank  you,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  And  John 
hobbled  briskly  over  to  his  typewriter  in  the  corner. 
Roger  sat  down  at  his  desk.  As  he  did  so  he  glanced 
again  at  the  cripple  and  felt  a  little  pang  of  regret.  "  What 
will  become  of  him,"  he  asked,  "when  I  close  out  my  busi 
ness?"  He  still  thought  of  him  as  a  mere  boy,  for  looking 
at  the  small  crooked  form  it  was  difficult  to  remember 
that  John  was  twenty  years  of  age.  The  lad  had  worked 
like  a  Trojan  of  late.  Even  Roger,  engrossed  as  he  had 
been  in  family  anxieties,  had  noticed  it  in  the  last  few 
weeks.  He  would  have  to  make  some  provision  for  John. 
Deborah  would  see  to  it.  ...  Roger  went  slowly  through 
his  mail.  One  letter  was  from  the  real  esta,te  firm  through 
whom  he  was  to  sell  the  house.  The  deal  had  not  been 
closed  as  yet,  there  were  certain  points  still  to  be  settled. 
So  Roger  called  John  to  his  desk  and  dictated  a  reply. 
When  he  finished  there  was  a  brief  pause. 

"That's  all,"  said  Roger  gruffly. 


HIS  FAMILY  273 

"So  you're  sellin'  the  house,"  John  ventured. 

"Yes." 

The  lad  limped  back  to  his  corner  and  went  to  work  at 
his  machine.  But  presently  he  came  over  again  and  stood 
waiting  awkwardly. 

"What  is  it,  Johnny?"  Roger  inquired,  without  look 
ing  up. 

"Say,  Mr.  Gale,"  the  boy  began,  in  a  carefully  casual 
tone,  "would  you  mind  talking  business  a  minute  or  two?" 

"No.    Fire  ahead." 

"Well,  sir,  you've  had  your  own  troubles  lately,  you 
haven't  had  much  time  for  things  here.  The  last  time  you 
went  over  the  books  was  nearly  a  couple  of  weeks  ago." 
John  paused  and  his  look  was  portentous. 

"Well,"  asked  Roger,  "what  about  it?  Business  been 
picking  up  any  since  then?" 

"  Yes,  sir ! "  was  the  answer.  "We  didn't  lose  a  cent  last 
week!  We  made  money!  Fifteen  dollars!" 

"Good  Lord,  Johnny,  we're  getting  rich." 

"But  that's  nothing,"  John  continued.  "The  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  Mr.  Gale,  I  have  been  working  lately  on 
a  new  line  I  thought  of.  And  now  it's  got  agoing  so  fast 
it's  getting  clean  away  from  me!"  Again  he  stopped,  and 
swallowed  hard. 

"Out  with  it,  then,"  said  Roger. 

"I  got  it  from  the  war,"  said  John.  "The  papers  are 
still  half  full  of  war  news,  and  that's  what's  keeping  our 
business  down — because  we  ain't  adopting  ourselves  to 
the  new  war  conditions.  So  I  figured  it  like  this.  Say  there 
are  a  million  people  over  here  in  America  who've  got 
either  friends  or  relations  in  the  armies  over  there.  Say 
that  all  of  'em  want  to  get  news — not  just  this  stuff  about 
battles,  but  real  live  news  of  what's  happened  to  Bill. 
Has  Bill  still  got  his  legs  and  arms?  Can  he  hold  down  a 
j  ob  when  he  gets  home?  News  which  counts  for  something ! 
See?  A  big  new  market!  Business  for  us!  So  I  tried  to 


274  HIS  FAMILY 

see  what  I  could  do!"  John  excitedly  shifted  his  crutches. 
Roger  was  watching  intently. 

"Go  on,  Johnny." 

"Sure,  I'll  go  on!  One  night  I  went  to  a  library  where 
they  have  English  papers.  I  went  over  their  files  for  about 
a  month.  I  took  one  Canadian  regiment — see? — and 
traced  it  through,  and  I  got  quite  a  story.  Then  I  used 
some  of  the  money  I've  saved  and  bought  a  whole  bunch 
of  papers.  I  piled  'em  up  in  the  room  where  I  sleep  and 
went  through  'em  nights.  I  hired  two  kids  to  help  me. 
Well,  Mr.  Gale,  the  thing  worked  fine!  In  less  than  a 
week  I  had  any  amount  of  little  bunches  of  clippings. 
See  how  I  mean?  Each  bunch  was  the  story  of  one 
regiment  for  a  month.  So  I  knew  we  could  deliver  the 
goods! 

"Well,  this  was  about  ten  days  ago.  And  then  I  went 
after  the  market.  I  went  to  a  man  I  met  last  year 
in  an  advertising  office,  and  for  fifty  dollars  we  put  an  '  ad' 
in  the  Sunday  Times.  After  that  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  wait.  The  next  day — nothing  doing!  I  was  here  at 
seven-thirty  and  I  went  through  every  mail.  Not  a  single 
answer  to  my  'ad' — and  I  thought  I  was  busted!  But 
Tuesday  morning  there  were  three,  with  five  dollar  checks 
inside  of  'em !  In  the  afternoon  there  were  two  more  and 
the  next  day  eleven!  By  the  end  of  last  week  we'd  had 
forty-six!  Friday  I  put  in  another  'ad'  and  there' ve  been 
over  seventy  more  since  then !  That  makes  a  hundred  and 
twenty  in  all — six  hundred  dollars!  And  I'm  swamped! 
I  ain't  done  nothing  yet — I've  just  kept  'em  all  for  you  to 
see!" 

He  went  quickly  to  the  table,  gathered  a  pile  of  letters 
there  and  brought  them  over  to  Roger's  desk.  Roger 
glanced  over  a  few  of  them,  dazed.  He  looked  around  into 
John's  shrewd  face,  where  mingled  devotion  and  triumph 
and  business  zeal  were  shining. 

"Johnny,"  he  said  huskily,  "you've  adopted  my  busi- 


HIS  FAMILY  275 

ness  and  no  mistake."  John  swallowed  again  and  scowled 
with  joy. 

" Let's  figure  it  out!"  he  proposed. 

"We  will!" 

They  were  at  it  all  day,  laying  their  plans,  "adopting" 
the  work  of  the  office  to  the  new  conditions.  They  found 
they  would  need  a  larger  force,  including  a  French  and  a 
German  translator.  They  placed  other  "ads"  in  the  papers. 
They  forgot  to  have  lunch  and  worked  steadily  on,  till 
the  outer  rooms  were  empty  and  still.  At  last  they  were 
through.  Roger  wearily  put  on  his  cuffs,  and  went  and 
got  his  coat  and  hat. 

"Say,  Mr.  Gale,"  John  asked  him,  "how  about  this 
letter — the  one  you  dictated  this  morning  to  that  firm 
about  your  house?  "  Roger  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"Throw  it  into  the  basket,"  he  said.  "We'll  write  'em 
another  to-morrow  and  tell  'em  we  have  changed  our 
minds."  He  paused  for  just  a  moment,  and  then  he  added 
brusquely,  "If  this  goes  through  as  I  hope  it  will,  I  guess 
you'd  better  come  into  the  firm." 

And  he  left  the  room  abruptly.  Behind  him  there  was 
not  a  sound. 

At  home  in  his  study,  that  evening,  he  made  some  more 
calculations.  In  a  few  weeks  he  would  have  money 
enough  to  start  Edith  and  her  family  in  their  new  life  on 
the  farm.  For  the  present  at  least,  the  house  was  safe. 

"Why,  father."  Edith  came  into  the  room.  "I  didn't 
know  you  had  come  home.  What  kept  you  so  long  at  the 
office?" 

"Oh,  business,  my  dear — " 

"Have  you  had  any  supper?" 

"No,  and  I'd  like  some,"  he  replied. 

"  I'll  see  to  it  myself,"  she  said.  Edith  was  good  at  this 
sort  of  thing,  and  the  supper  she  brought  was  delicious. 
He  ate  it  with  keen  relish.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  study 


276  HIS  FAMILY 

and  picked  up  a  book,  an  old  favorite.  He  started  to  read, 
but  presently  dozed.  The  book  dropped  from  his  hands 
and  he  fell  asleep. 

He  awakened  with  a  start,  and  saw  Deborah  looking 
down  at  him.  For  a  moment  he  stared  up,  as  he  came  to 
his  senses,  and  in  his  daughter's  clear  gray  eyes  he  thought 
he  saw  a  happiness  which  set  his  heart  to  beating  fast. 

"Well?"  he  questioned  huskily. 

"We're  to  be  married  right  away." 

He  stared  a  moment  longer;  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  so  glad, 
my  dear.  I  was  afraid  you — "  he  stopped  short.  Deborah 
bent  close  to  him,  and  he  felt  her  squeeze  his  arm : 

"I've  been  over  and  over  all  you  said,"  she  told  him, 
in  a  low  sweet  voice.  "  I  had  a  good  many  ups  and  downs. 
But  I'm  all  through  now — I'm  sure  you  were  right."  And 
she  pressed  her  cheek  to  his.  "Oh,  dad,  dad — it's  such  a 
relief!  And  I'm  so  happy!  ....  Thank  you,  dear." 

"Where  is  Allan?"  he  asked  presently. 

"I'll  get  him,"  she  said.  She  left  the  room,  and  in  a 
moment  Allan's  tall  ungainly  form  appeared  in  the  door 
way. 

"Well,  Allan,  my  boy,"  Roger  cried. 

"Oh,  Roger  Gale,"  said  Allan  softly.  He  was  wringing 
Roger '»s  hand. 

"So  she  decided  to  risk  you,  eh,"  Roger  said  unsteadily. 
"Well,  Baird,  you  look  like  a  devilish  risk  for  a  woman 
like  her — who  has  the  whole  world  on  her  back  as  it  is — " 

"I  know — I  know — and  how  rash  she  has  been!  Only 
two  years  and  her  mind  was  made  up!" 

"But  that's  like  her — that's  our  Deborah — always  act 
ing  like  a  flash — " 

"Stop  acting  like  children!"  Deborah  cried.  "And 
be  sensible  and  listen  to  me!  We're  to  be  married  to 
morrow  morning — " 

"Why  to-morrow?"  Roger  asked. 

"Because,"  she  said  decidedly,  "there  has  been  enough 


HIS  FAMILY  277 

fuss  over  this  affair.  So  we'll  just  be  married  and  have  it 
done.  And  when  Edith  and  the  children  go  up  next  week 
to  the  mountains,  we  want  to  move  right  into  this  house." 

"This  house?"  exclaimed  her  father. 

"I  know — it's  sold,"  she  answered.  "But  we're  going 
to  get  a  lease.  We'll  see  the  new  owner  and  talk  him 
around." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  talk  your  father  around — " 

"You  around?"  And  Deborah  stared.  "You  mean 
to  say  you're  not  going  to  sell?" 

"I  do,"  said  Roger  blithely.  He  told  them  the  story 
of  John's  new  scheme.  "And  if  things  turn  out  in  the 
office  as  I  hope  they  will,"  he  ended,  "we'll  clear  the 
mortgage  on  the  house  and  then  make  it  your  wedding 
gift — from  the  new  firm  to  the  new  family." 

Deborah  choked  a  little: 

"Allan!    What  do  you  think  of  us  now?" 

"I  think,"  he  answered,  in  a  drawl,  "that  we'd  better 
try  to  persuade  the  new  firm  to  live  with  the  new  family." 

"We  will,  and  the  sooner  the  better!"  she  said. 

"I'm  going  up  to  the  mountains,"  said  Roger. 

"Yes,  but  you're  coming  back  in  the  fall,  and  when  you 
do  you're  coming  here!  And  you're  going  to  live  here 
years  and  years!" 

"You're  forgetting  my  doctor." 

"Not  at  all.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him  Sunday  and  I 
know  just  what  I'm  saying." 

"You  don't  look  it,  my  dear,"  said  Roger,  "but  of 
course  you  may  be  right.  If  you  take  the  proper  care  of 
me  here — -and  John  keeps  booming  things  for  the  firm — " 

"And  George  makes  a  huge  success  of  the  farm,"  Deb 
orah  added  quickly. 

"And  Deborah  of  teaching  the  world — " 

"Oh,  Allan,  hush  up!" 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "You  go  upstairs  and  tell  Edith 
all  this.  Your  father  and  I  want  to  be  alone." 


278  HIS  FAMILY 

And  when  the  two  men  were  left  alone,  they  smoked  and 
said  nothing.  They  smiled  at  each  other. 

"It's  hard  to  decide/'  grunted  Roger  at  last.  " Which 
did  it — my  wonderful  sermon  or  your  own  long  waiting 
game?  I'm  inclined  to  think  it  was  the  game.  For  any 
other  man  but  you — with  all  you've  done,  without  any 
talk — no,  sir,  there  wouldn't  have  been  a  chance.  For 
she's  modern,  Baird,  she's  modern.  And  I'm  going  to 
live  just  as  long  as  I  can.  I  want  to  see  what  happens 
here." 

The  next  night  in  his  study,  how  quiet  it  was.  Edith 
was  busy  packing  upstairs,  Deborah  and  Allan  were  gone. 
Thoughts  drifted  slowly  across  his  mind.  Well,  she  was 
married,  the  last  of  his  daughters,  the  one  whom  he  cared 
most  for,  the  one  who  had  taken  the  heaviest  risks.  And 
this  was  the  greatest  risk  of  all.  For  although  she  had 
put  it  happily  out  of  her  thoughts  for  the  moment,  Roger 
knew  the  old  troublesome  question  was  still  there  in  Deb 
orah's  mind.  The  tenement  children  or  her  own,  the  big 
family  or  the  small?  He  felt  there  would  still  be  struggles 
ahead.  And  with  a  kind  of  a  wistfulness  he  tried  to  see 
into  the  future  here. 

He  gave  a  sudden  start  in  his  chair. 

"By  George!"  he  thought.     "They  forgot  the  ring!" 

Scowling,  he  tried  to  remember.  Yes,  in  the  brief 
simple  service  that  day,  in  which  so  much  had  been 
omitted — music,  flowers,  wedding  gown — even  the  ring 
had  been  left  out.  Why?  Not  from  any  principle,  he 
knew  that  they  were  not  such  fools.  No,  they  had  simply 
forgotten  it,  in  the  haste  of  getting  married  at  once.  Well, 
by  thunder,  for  a  girl  whose  father  had  been  a  collector  of 
rings  for  the  best  part  of  his  natural  life,  it  was  pretty 
shabby  to  say  the  least !  Then  he  recollected  that  he,  too, 
had  forgotten  it.  And  this  quieted  him  immediately. 

"I'll  get  one,  though,"  he  promised  himself.     "And  no 


HIS  FAMILY  279 

plain  wedding  ring  either.     I'll  make  A.  Baird  attend  to 
that.     No,  I'll  get  her  a  ring  worth  while." 

He  sank  deep  in  his  chair  and  took  peace  to  his  soul  by 
thinking  of  the  ring  he  would  choose.  And  this  carried 
his  thoughts  back  over  the  years.  For  there  had  been  so 
many  rings  .... 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IT  was  a  clear  beautiful  afternoon  toward  the  end  of 
May.  And  as  the  train  puffing  up  the  grade  wound  along 
the  Connecticut  River,  Roger  sat  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow.  The  orchards  were  pink  and  white  on  the  hills. 
Slowly  the  day  wore  away.  The  river  narrowed,  the  hills 
reared  high,  and  in  the  sloping  meadows  gray  ribs  and 
shoulders  of  granite  appeared.  The  air  had  a  tang  of  the 
mountains.  Everywhere  were  signs  of  spring,  of  new 
vigor  and  fresh  life.  But  the  voices  at  each  station 
sounded  drowsier  than  at  the  last,  the  eyes  appeared  more 
stolid,  and  to  Roger  it  felt  like  a  journey  far  back  into  old 
ways  of  living,  old  beliefs  and  old  ideals.  He  had  always 
had  this  feeling,  and  always  he  had  relished  it,  this  dive 
into  his  boyhood.  But  it  was  different  to-day,  for  this 
was  more  than  a  journey,  it  was  a  migration,  too.  Close 
about  him  in  the  car  were  Edith  and  her  children,  bound 
for  a  new  home  up  there  in  the  very  heart  and  stronghold 
of  all  old  things  in  America. 

Old  things  dear  to  Edith's  heart.  As  she  sat  by  the 
window  staring  out,  he  watched  her  shapely  little  head; 
he  noted  the  hardening  lines  on  her  forehead  and  the  gray 
which  had  come  in  her  hair.  It  had  been  no  easy  move  for 
her,  this,  she'd  shown  pluck  to  take  it  so  quietly.  He  saw 
her  smile  a  little,  then  frown  and  go  on  with  her  thinking. 
What  was  she  thinking  about,  he  wondered — all  she  had 
left  behind  in  New  York,  or  the  rest  of  her  life  which  lay 
ahead?  She  had  always  longed  for  things  simple  and  old. 
Well,  she  would  have  them  now  with  a  vengeance,  summer 
and  winter,  the  year  'round,  in  the  battered  frame  house 
on  the  mountain  side,  the  birthplace  of  her  family.  A 

280 


HIS  FAMILY  281 

recollection  came  to  him  of  a  summer's  dusk  two  years 
ago  and  a  woman  with  a  lawn  mower  cutting  the  grass  on 
the  family  graves.  Would  Edith  ever  be  like  that,  a  mere 
custodian  of  the  past?  If  she  did,  he  thought,  she  would 
be  false  to  the  very  traditions  she  tried  to  preserve.  For 
her  forefathers  had  never  been  mere  guardians  of  things 
gone  by.  Always  they  had  been  pioneers.  That  house 
had  not  been  old  to  them,  but  a  thrilling  new  adventure. 
Their  old  homes  they  had  left  behind,  far  down  in  the 
valleys  to  the  east.  And  even  those  valley  homes  had 
been  new  to  the  rugged  men  come  over  the  sea.  Would 
Edith  ever  understand?  Would  she  see  that  for  herself 
the  new  must  emerge  from  her  children,  from  the  ideas, 
desires  and  plans  already  teeming  in  their  minds?  Would 
she  show  keen  interest,  sympathy?  Would  she  be  able 
to  keep  her  hold? 

In  the  seat  behind  her  mother,  Betsy  was  sitting  with 
Bruce  in  her  lap,  looking  over  a  picture  book.  Quietly 
Roger  watched  the  girl. 

"What  are  you  going  to  be?"  he  asked.  "A  woman's 
college  president,  a  surgeon  or  a  senator?  And  what  will 
your  mother  think  of  you  then?" 

They  changed  cars,  and  on  a  train  made  up  of  antiquated 
coaches  they  wound  through  a  side  valley,  down  which 
rushing  and  tumbling  came  the  river  that  bore  Roger's 
name.  He  went  into  the  smoking  car,  and  presently 
George  joined  him  there.  George  did  not  yet  smoke, 
(with  his  elders),  but  he  had  bought  a  package  of  gum  and 
he  was  chewing  absorbedly.  Plainly  the  lad  was  excited 
over  the  great  existence  which  he  saw  opening  close 
ahead.  Roger  glanced  at  the  boy's  broad  shoulders, 
noticed  the  eager  lines  of  his  jaw,  looked  down  at  his 
enormous  hands,  unformed  as  yet,  ungainly;  but  in  them 
was  a  hungriness  that  caused  a  glow  in  Roger's  breast. 
One  more  of  the  family  starting  out. 

"It's  all  going  to   depend   on   you,"   Roger  gravely 


282  HIS  FAMILY 

counseled.  "Your  whole  life  will  depend  on  the  start 
you  make.  Either  you're  going  to  settle  down,  like  so 
many  of  your  neighbors  up  there,  or  you're  going  to  hustle, 
plan  out  your  day,  keep  on  with  your  studies  and  go  to 
college — the  State  Agricultural  College,  I  mean.  In 
short,  keep  up  to  date,  my  boy,  and  become  in  time  a  big 
figure  in  farming." 

"I'm  going  to  do  it,"  George  replied.  His  grandfather 
glanced  again  at  his  face,  so  scowling,  so  determined. 
And  a  gleam  of  compassion  and  yearning  came  for  a 
moment  in  Roger's  eyes.  His  heavy  hand  lay  on  George's 
knee. 

"That's  right,  son,"  he  grunted.  "Make  the  family 
proud  of  you.  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  start.  My 
business  is  picking  up,  thank  God,  and  I'll  be  able  to  back 
you  now.  I'll  stay  up  here  a  good  part  of  the  summer. 
We've  both  of  us  got  a  lot  to  learn — and  not  only  from 
books — we  want  to  remember  we've  plenty  to  learn  from 
the  neighbors,  too.  Take  old  Dave  Royce,  for  instance, 
who  when  all  is  said  and  done  has  worked  our  farm  for 
twenty  odd  years  and  never  once  run  me  into  debt." 

"But,  Gee!"  demurred  George.  "He's  so  'way  out  of 
date!" 

"I  know  he  is,  son,  but  we've  got  to  go  slow."  And 
Roger's  look  passed  furtively  along  the  faces  in  the  car. 
"We  don't  want  to  forget,"  he  warned,  "that  this  is  still 
New  England.  Every  new  idea  we  have  we  want  to  go 
easy  with,  snake  it  in." 

"I've  got  an  awful  lot  of  'em,"  the  boy  muttered  hun 
grily. 

At  the  farm,  the  next  morning  at  daybreak,  Roger  was 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  George's  voice.  It  was  just 
beneath  his  window: 

"But  cattle  are  only  part  of  it,  Dave,"  the  boy  de 
clared,  in  earnest  tones,  "just  part  of  what  we  can  have  up 


HIS  FAMILY  283 

here.  Think  what  we've  got — over  three  hundred  acres! 
And  we  want  to  make  every  acre  count!  We  want  to  get 
in  a  whole  lot  more  of  hogs — Belted  Hampshires,  if  we 
can  afford  'em — and  a  couple  of  hundred  hens.  White 
Leghorns  ought  to  fill  the  bill.  Of  course  that's  just  a 
starter.  I've  got  a  scheme  for  some  incubators — electric 
— run  by  the  dynamo  which  we'll  put  in  down  by  the  dam. 
And  we  can  do  wondors  with  bees,  too,  Dave — I've  got  a 
book  on  'em  I'd  like  you  to  read.  And  besides,  there's 
big  money  in  squab  these  days.  Rich  women  in  New 
York  hotels  eat  thousands  of  'em  every  night.  And 
ducks,  of  course,  and  turkeys.  I'd  like  a  white  gobbler 
right  at  the  start,  if  we  knew  where  we  could  get  one 
cheap."  The  voice  broke  off  and  there  was  a  pause. 
"We  can  do  an  awful  lot  with  this  place." 

Then  Dave's  deep  drawl: 

"That's  so,  George — yes,  I  guess  that's  so.  Only  we 
don't  want  to  fool  ourselves.  That  ain't  Noah's  Ark  over 
thar — it's  a  barn.  And  just  for  a  starter,  if  I  was  you — " 
Here  Dave  deliberated.  "Of  course  it's  none  of  my  busi 
ness,"  he  said,  "it's  for  you  and  your  grandfather  to  de 
cide — and  I  don't  propose  to  interfere  in  what  ain't  any 
of  my  affair — " 

"Yes,  yes,  Dave,  sure!  That's  all  right!  But  go  on! 
What,  just  for  a  starter?" 

"Cows,"  came  the  tranquil  answer.  "I've  been  hunt 
ing  around  since  you  wrut  me  last  month.  And  I  know 
of  three  good  milkers — ' 

"  Three?    Why,  Dave,  I  wrote  we  want  thirty  or  forty ! " 

"Yes — you  wrut,"  Dave  answered.  "But  I've  druv 
all  around  these  parts — and  there  ain't  but  three  that  I 
can  find.  And  I  ain't  so  sure  of  that  third  one.  She  looks 
like  she  might — "  George  cut  in. 

"But  you  only  had  a  buggy,  Dave!  Gee!  I'm  going  to 
have  a  Ford!" 

"That  so,  George?" 


284  HIS  FAMILY 

"You  bet  it's  so!  And  we'll  go  on  a  cow  hunt  all  over 
the  State!" 

"Well — I  dunno  but  what  you're  right/'  Dave  re 
sponded  cautiously.  "  You  might  get  more  cows  if  you  had 
a  Ford — an'  got  so  you  could  run  it.  Yes,  I  guess  it's 
a  pretty  good  scheme.  I  believe  in  being  conservative, 
George — but  I  dunno  now  but  what  a  Ford — " 

Their  voices  passed  from  under  the  window,  and  Roger 
relaxed  and  smiled  to  himself.  It  was  a  good  beginning, 
he  thought. 

They  bought  a  Ford  soon  afterwards  and  in  the  next 
few  weeks  of  June  they  searched  the  farms  for  miles 
around,  slowly  adding  to  their  herd.  To  Roger's  sur 
prise  he  found  many  signs  of  a  new  life  stirring  there 
— the  farmers  buying  "autos"  and  improved  machinery, 
thinking  of  new  processes;  and  down  in  the  lower  valleys 
they  found  several  big  stock  farms  which  were  decidedly 
modern  affairs.  At  one  such  place,  the  man  in  charge  took 
a  fancy  to  George  and  asked  him  to  drop  over  often. 

"You  bet  I'll  drop  over  often!"  George  replied,  as  he 
climbed  excitedly  into  his  Ford.  "I  want  to  see  more  of 
those  milking  machines!  We're  going  to  have  'em  some 
day  ourselves!  A  dynamo  too!" 

And  at  home,  down  by  the  ruined  mill  he  again  set 
about  rebuilding  the  dam. 

Roger  felt  himself  growing  stronger.  His  sleeps  were 
sound,  and  his  appetite  had  come  back  to  a  surprising 
degree.  The  mountain  air  had  got  into  his  blood  and 
George's  warm  vigor  into  his  soul.  One  afternoon,  watch 
ing  the  herd  come  home,  some  thirty  huge  animals  swinging 
along  with  a  slow  heavy  power  in  their  limbs,  he  breathed 
the  strong  sweet  scent  of  them  on  the  mountain  breeze. 
George  came  running  by  them  and  stopped  a  moment 
by  Roger's  side,  watching  closely  and  eagerly  every  animal 
as  it  passed.  And  Roger  glanced  at  George's  face.  The 
herd  passed  on  and  George  followed  behind,  his  collie  dog 


HIS  FAMILY  285 

leaping  and  barking  beside  him.  And  Roger  looked  up  at 
a  billowy  cloud  resting  on  a  mountain  top  and  wondered 
whether  after  all  that  New  York  doctor  had  been  right. 

He  followed  the  herd  into  the  barn.  In  two  long  rows, 
the  great  heads  of  the  cattle  turned  hungrily,  lowing  and 
sniffing  deep,  breathing  harshly,  stamping,  as  the  fodder 
cart  came  down  the  lines.  What  a  splendidly  wholesome 
work  for  a  lad,  growing  up  with  his  roots  in  the  soil,  in 
these  massive  simple  forces  of  life.  What  of  Edith's 
other  children?  Would  they  be  willing  to  stay  here  long? 
Each  morning  Roger  breakfasted  with  Bruce  the  baby 
by  his  side.  "  What  a  thing  for  you,  little  lad,"  he  thought, 
"if  you  could  live  here  all  your  days.  But  will  you?  Will 
you  want  to  stay?  Won't  you,  too,  get  the  fever,  as  I  did, 
for  the  city?"  In  the  joyous,  shining,  mysterious  eyes  of 
the  baby  he  found  no  reply.  He  had  many  long  talks  with 
Betsy,  who  was  eager  to  go  away  to  school,  and  with  Bob 
and  little  Tad  who  were  going  to  school  in  the  village  that 
fall.  And  the  feeling  came  to  Roger  that  surely  he  would 
see  these  lives,  at  least  for  many  years  ahead.  They  were 
so  familiar  and  so  real,  so  fresh  and  filled  with  hopes  and 
dreams.  And  he  felt  himself  so  a  part  of  them  all. 

But  one  morning,  climbing  the  steep  upper  field  to  a 
spring  George  wanted  to  show  him,  Roger  suddenly 
swayed,  turned  faint.  He  caught  hold  of  a  boulder  on  the 
wall  and  held  himself  rigid,  breathing  hard.  It  passed, 
and  he  looked  at  his  grandson.  But  George  had  noticed 
nothing.  The  boy  had  turned  and  his  brown  eyes  were 
fixed  on  a  fallow  field  below.  Wistfully  Roger  watched 
his  face.  They  both  stood  motionless  for  a  long  time. 

As  the  summer  drew  slowly  to  a  close,  Roger  spent  many 
quiet  hours  alone  by  the  copse  of  birches,  where  the  glory 
of  autumn  was  already  stealing  in  and  out  among  the  tall 
slender  stems  of  the  trees.  And  he  thought  of  the  silent 
winter  there,  and  of  the  spring  which  would  come  again,  and 
the  long  fragrant  summer.  And  he  watched  the  glow  on 


286  HIS  FAMILY 

the  mountains  above  and  the  rolling  splendors  of  the 
clouds.  At  dusk  he  heard  the  voices  of  animals,  birds  and 
insects,  murmuring  up  from  all  the  broad  valley,  then 
gradually  sinking  to  deep  repose,  many  never  to  wake 
again.  And  the  span  of  his  life,  from  the  boyhood  which 
he  could  recall  so  vividly  here  among  these  children, 
seemed  brief  to  him  as  a  summer's  day,  only  a  part  of  a 
mighty  whole  made  up  of  the  innumerable  lives,  the 
many  generations,  of  his  family,  his  own  flesh  and  blood, 
come  out  of  a  past  he  could  never  know,  and  going  on 
without  him  now,  branching,  dividing,  widening  out  to 
what  his  eyes  would  never  see. 

Vaguely  he  pictured  them  groping  their  way,  just  as 
he  himself  had  done.  It  seemed  to  Roger  that  all  his  days 
he  had  been  only  entering  life,  as  some  rich  bewildering 
thicket  like  this  copse  of  birches  here,  never  getting  very 
deep,  never  seeing  very  clearly,  never  understanding  all. 
And  so  it  had  been  with  his  children,  and  so  it  was 
with  these  children  of  Edith's,  and  so  it  would  be  with 
those  many  others — always  groping,  blundering,  starting 
— children,  only  children  all.  And  yet  what  lives  they 
were  to  lead,  what  joys  and  revelations  and  disasters 
would  be  theirs,  in  the  strange  remote  world  they  would 
live  in — "my  flesh  and  blood  that  I  never  shall  know." 

But  the  stars  were  quiet  and  serene.  The  meadows 
and  the  forests  on  the  broad  sweep  of  the  mountain  side 
took  on  still  brighter,  warmer. hues.  And  there  was  no 
gloom  in  these  long  good-byes. 

On  a  frosty  night  in  September,  he  left  the  farm  to  go 
to  the  city.  From  his  seat  in  the  small  automobile  Roger 
looked  back  at  the  pleasant  old  house  with  its  brightly 
lighted  windows,  and  then  he  turned  to  George  by  his 
side: 

"We're  in  good  shape  for  the  winter,  son." 

But  George  did  not  get  his  full  meaning. 


HIS  FAMILY  287 

At  the  little  station,  there  were  no  other  passengers. 
They  walked  the  platform  for  some  time.  Then  the  train 
with  a  scream  came  around  the  curve.  A  quick  grip  on 
George's  hand,  and  Roger  climbed  into  the  car.  Inside, 
a  moment  later,  he  looked  out  through  the  window.  By  a 
trainman  with  a  lantern,  George  stood  watching,  smil 
ing  up,  and  he  waved  his  hand  as  the  train  pulled  out. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  next  morning  on  his  arrival  in  town,  Roger  went 
to  his  office.  He  had  little  cause  for  uneasiness  there,  for 
twice  in  the  summer  he  had  come  down  to  keep  an  eye  on 
the  business,  while  John  had  taken  brief  vacations  at  a 
seaside  place  nearby.  The  boy  had  no  color  now  in  his 
cheeks;  as  always,  they  were  a  sallow  gray  with  the  skin 
drawn  tight  over  high  cheek  bones;  his  vigor  was  all  in  his 
eyes.  But  here  was  a  new  John,  nevertheless,  a  successful 
man  of  affairs.  He  had  on  a  spruce  new  suit  of  brown,  no 
cheap  ready-made  affair  but  one  carefully  fitted  to  conceal 
and  soften  his  deformity.  He  was  wearing  a  bright  blue 
tie  and  a  cornflower  in  his  buttonhole,  and  his  sandy  hair 
was  sleekly  brushed.  He  showed  Roger  into  his  private 
room,  a  small  place  he  had  partitioned  off,  where  over  his 
desk  was  a  motto  in  gold:  "This  is  no  place  for  your 
troubles  or  mine." 

"Lord,  but  you've  got  yourself  fixed  up  fine  in  here," 
said  Roger.  John  smiled  broadly.  "And  you're  looking 
like  a  new  man,  Johnny." 

"I  had  a  great  time  at  the  seashore.  Learned  to  sail  a 
boat  alone.  What  do  you  think  of  this  chair  of  mine?" 
And  John  complacently  displayed  the  ingenious  contri 
vance  in  front  of  his  desk,  somewhat  like  a  bicycle  seat. 
It  was  made  of  steel  and  leather  pads. 

"Wonderful,"  said  Roger.  "Where'd  you  ever  pick 
it  up?" 

"I  had  it  made,"  was  the  grave  reply.  "When  a  fellow 
has  got  up  in  life  enough  to  have  a  stenographer,  it's  high 
time  he  was  sitting  down." 

288 


HIS  FAMILY  289 

"Let's  see  you  do  it."  John  sat  down.  "Now  how  is 
business?"  Roger  asked. 

"Great.  Since  the  little  slump  we  had  in  August  it 
has  taken  a  new  start — and  not  only  war  business,  at  that 
— the  old  people  are  sending  in  orders  again.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Mr.  Gale,  this  country  is  right  on  the  edge  of  a 
boom!" 

And  the  junior  member  of  the  firm  tilted  triumphantly 
back  in  his  chair. 

With  the  solid  comfort  which  comes  to  a  man  when  he 
returns  to  find  his  affairs  all  going  well,  Roger  worked  on 
until  five  o'clock,  and  then  he  started  for  his  home. 

Deborah  had  not  yet  come  in,  and  a  deep  silence 
reigned  in  the  house.  He  looked  through  the  rooms  down 
stairs,  and  with  content  he  noticed  how  little  had  been 
altered.  His  beloved  study  had  not  been  touched.  On 
the  third  floor,  in  the  large  back  room,  he  found  John 
comfortably  installed.  There  were  gay  prints  upon  the 
walls,  fresh  curtains  at  the  windows,  a  mandolin  lying  on 
a  chair.  And  Roger,  glancing  down  at  the  keen  glad 
face  of  his  partner,  told  himself  that  the  doctor  who  had 
said  this  lad  would  die  was  a  fool. 

"These  doctors  fool  themselves  often,"  he  thought. 

Deborah  and  Allan  had  the  front  room  on  the  floor 
below.  Roger  went  in,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  looking 
about  him.  How  restful  and  how  radiant  was  this  large 
old-fashioned  chamber,  so  softly  lighted,  waiting.  Through 
a  passageway  lined  with  cupboards  he  went  into  his  room 
at  the  back.  Deborah  had  repapered  it,  but  with  a  pattern 
so  similar  that  Roger  did  not  notice  the  change.  He  only 
felt  a  vague  freshness  here,  as  though  even  this  old  cham 
ber,  too,  were  making  a  new  start  in  life.  And  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  to  live  here  for  years.  Slowly  he  unpacked 
his  trunk  and  took  a  bath  and  dressed  at  his  leisure.  Then 
he  heard  Deborah's  voice  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,  come  in!"  he  answered. 


290  HIS  FAMILY 

"Why,  father!  Dearie!"  Deborah  cried.  "Oh,  how 
well  you're  looking,  dad!"  And  she  kissed  him  happily. 
"Oh,  but  I'm  glad  to  have  you  back — " 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  and  he  squeezed  her  hand. 
"Here,  come  to  the  light,  let  me  look  at  you."  He  saw 
her  cheeks  a  little  flushed,  the  gladness  in  her  steady 
eyes.  "Happy?  Everything  just  right?"  His  daughter 
nodded,  smiling,  and  he  gave  a  whimsical  frown.  "No 
ups  and  down  at  all?  That's  bad." 

"Oh,  yes,  plenty — but  all  so  small." 

"Good  fellow  to  live  with." 

"Very." 

"  And  your  work? 

"It's  going  splendidly.  I'll  tell  you  about  it  this  even 
ing,  after  you  give  me  the  news  from  the  farm." 

They  chatted  on  for  a  short  while,  but  he  saw  she  was 
barely  listening. 

"Can't  you  guess  what  it  means,"  she  asked  him  softly, 
"to  a  woman  of  my  age — after  she  has  been  so  afraid 
she  was  too  old,  that  she'd  married  too  late — to  know  at 
last — to  be  sure  at  last — that  she's  to  have  a  baby,  dad?" 
He  drew  back  a  little,  and  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat. 

"By  George!"  he  huskily  exclaimed.  "Oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear ! ' '  And  he  held  her  close  in  his  arms  for  some  time, 
till  both  of  them  grew  sensible. 

Soon  after  she  had  gone  to  her  room,  he  heard  Allan 
coming  upstairs.  He  heard  her  low  sweet  cry  of  welcome, 
a  silence,  then  their  voices.  He  heard  them  laughing 
together  and  later  Deborah  humming  a  song.  And  still 
thinking  of  what  she  had  told  him,  he  felt  himself  so  close 
to  it  all.  And  again  the  feeling  came  to  him  that  surely 
he  would  live  here  for  years. 

Allan  came  in  and  they  had  a  talk. 

"Deborah  says  she  has  told  you  the  news." 

"Yes.  Everything's  all  right,  I  suppose — her  condition, 
I  mean,"  said  Roger. 


HIS  FAMILY  291 

"Couldn't  be  better." 

"Just  as  I  thought." 

"Those  six  weeks  we  had  up  in  Maine — " 

"Yes,  you  both  show  it.    Working  hard?" 

"Yes—" 

"And  Deborah?"    Roger  asked. 

"You'll  have  to  help  me  hold  her  in." 

They  talked  a  few  moments  longer  and  went  down 
to  the  living  room.  John  was  there  with  Deborah.  All 
four  went  in  to  dinner.  And  through  the  conversation, 
from  time  to  time  Roger  noticed  the  looks  that  went  back 
and  forth  between  husband  and  wife;  and  again  he  caught 
Deborah  smiling  as  though  oblivious  of  them  all.  After 
dinner  she  went  with  him  into  his  den. 

"Well!    Do  you  like  the  house?"  she  inquired. 

"Better  than  ever,"  he  replied. 

"I  wonder  if  you'll  mind  it.  There'll  be  people  coming 
to  dinner,  you  know — " 

"That  won't  bother  me  any,"  he  said. 

"And  committee  meetings  now  and  then.  But  you're 
safe  in  here,  it's  a  good  thick  door." 

"Let  'em  talk,"  he  retorted,  "as  hard  as  they  please. 
You're  married  now — they  can't  scare  me  a  bit.  Only  at 
ten  o'clock,  by  George,  you've  got  to  knock  off  and  go  to 
bed." 

"Oh,  I'll  take  care  of  myself,"  she  said. 

"If  you  don't,  Allan  will.    We've  had  a  talk." 

"Scheming  alread}^." 

"Yes.    When  will  it  be?" 

"In  April,  I  think." 

"You'll  quit  work  in  your  schools?" 

"A  month  before." 

"And  in  the  meantime,  not  too  hard." 

"No,  and  not  too  easy.  I'm  so  sure  now  that  I  can  do 
both."  And  Deborah  kissed  him  gently.  "I'm  so  happy, 
dearie — and  oh,  so  very  glad  you're  here!" 


292  HIS  FAMILY 

There  followed  for  Roger,  after  that,  many  quiet  even 
ings  at  home,  untroubled  days  in  his  office.  Seldom  did 
he  notice  the  progress  of  his  ailment.  His  attention 
was  upon  his  house,  as  this  woman  who  mothered  thou 
sands  of  children  worked  on  for  her  great  family,  putting 
all  in  order,  making  ready  for  the  crisis  ahead  when  she 
would  become  the  mother  of  one. 

Now  even  more  than  ever  before,  her  work  came  crowd 
ing  into  his  home.  The  house  was  old,  but  the  house  was 
new.  For  from  schools  and  libraries,  cafe's  and  tenements 
and  streets,  the  mighty  formless  hunger  which  had  once 
so  thrilled  her  father  poured  into  the  house  itself  and  soon 
became  a  part  of  it.  He  felt  the  presence  of  the  school. 
He  heard  the  daily  gossip  of  that  bewildering  system  of 
which  his  daughter  was  a  part:  a  world  in  itself,  with  its 
politics,  its  many  jarring  factions,  its  jealousies,  dissen 
sions,  its  varied  personalities,  ambitions  and  conspiracies; 
but  in  spite  of  these  confusions  its  more  progressive  ele 
ments  downing  all  distrusts  and  fears  and  drawing  steadily 
closer  to  life,  fearlessly  rousing  everywhere  the  hunger  in 
people  to  live  and  learn  and  to  take  from  this  amazing 
world  all  the  riches  that  it  holds :  the  school  with  its  great 
challenge  steadily  increasing  its  demands  in  the  name  of 
its  children,  demands  which  went  deep  down  into  conditions 
in  the  tenements  and  ramified  through  politics  to  the  City 
Hall,  to  Albany,  and  even  away  to  Washington — while 
day  by  day  and  week  by  week,  from  cities,  towns  and  vil 
lages  came  the  vast  prophetic  story  of  the  free  public 
schools  of  the  land. 

And  meanwhile,  in  the  tenements,  still  groping  and  test 
ing,  feeling  her  way, keeping  close  watch  on  her  great  brood, 
their  wakening  desires,  their  widening  curiosities,  Deborah 
was  bringing  them,  children,  mothers  and  fathers  too, 
together  through  the  one  big  hope  of  brighter  and  more 
ample  lives  for  everybody's  children.  Step  by  step  this 
hope  was  spread  out  into  the  surrounding  swamps  and 


HIS  FAMILY  293 

jungles  of  blind  driven  lives,  to  find  surprising  treasures 
there  deep  buried  under  dirt  and  din,  locked  in  the  com 
mon  heart  of  mankind — old  songs  and  fables,  hopes  and 
dreams  and  visions  of  immortal  light,  handed  down  from 
father  to  son,  nurtured,  guarded,  breathed  upon  and 
clothed  anew  by  countless  generations,  innumerable  mil 
lions  of  simple  men  and  women  blindly  struggling  toward 
the  sun.  Over  the  door  of  one  of  the  schools,  were  these 
words  carved  in  the  stone: 

"  Humanity  is  still  a  child.  Our  parents  are  all  people 
who  have  lived  upon  the  earth — -our  children,  all  who  are 
to  come.  And  the  dawn  at  last  is  breaking.  The  great 
day  has  just  begun." 

This  spirit  of  triumphal  life  poured  deep  into  Rog 
er's  house.  It  was  as  though  his  daughter,  in  these 
last  months  which  she  had  left  for  undivided  service, 
were  strengthening  her  faith  in  it  all  and  pledging  her  de 
votion — as  communing  with  herself  she  felt  the  crisis 
drawing  near. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THERE  came  an  interruption.  One  night  when  Deborah 
was  out  and  Roger  sat  in  his  study  alone,  the  maid  came 
in  highly  flustered  and  said, 

"Mr.  Gale!    It's  Miss  Laura  to  see  you!" 

He  turned  with  a  startled  jerk  of  his  head  and  his  face 
slowly  reddened.  But  when  he  saw  the  maid's  eager 
expression  and  saw  that  she  was  expecting  a  scene,  with  a 
frown  of  displeasure  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  and  he  went  to  his  daughter.  He 
found  her  in  the  living  room.  No  repentant  Magdalene, 
but  quite  unabashed  and  at  her  ease,  she  came  to  her 
father  quickly. 

"Oh,  dad,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  dear!"  And  she  gave 
him  a  swift  impetuous  kiss,  her  rich  lips  for  an  instant 
pressing  warmly  to  his  cheek. 

"Laura!"  he  said  thickly.  "Come  into  my  study,  will 
you?  I'm  alone  this  evening." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  are!"  she  replied.  She  followed  him 
in  and  he  closed  the  door.  He  glanced  at  her  confusedly. 
In  her  warmth,  her  elegance,  an  indefinable  change  in 
the  tone  and  accent  of  her  high  magnetic  voice,  and  in  her 
ardent  smiling  eyes,  she  seemed  to  him  more  the  foreigner 
now.  And  Roger's  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  What  had 
happened?  Had  she  married  again? 

"Is  Edith  here  still?"  she  was  asking. 

"No,  she's  up  in  the  mountains.  She's  living  there," 
he  answered. 

"Edith?  In  the  mountains?"  demanded  Laura,  in 
surprise.  And  she  asked  innumerable  questions.  He 

294 


HIS  FAMILY  295 

replied  to  each  one  of  them  carefully,  slowly,  meanwhile 
getting  control  of  himself. 

"And  Deborah  married — married  at  last!  How  has 
it  worked?  Is  she  happy,  dad?" 

"Very,"  he  said. 

"And  is  she  still  keeping  up  her  schools?" 

"Yes,  for  the  present.  She'll  have  to  stop  soon." 
Laura  leaned  forward,  curious: 

"Tell  me,  dad— a  baby?" 

"Yes."    She  stared  a  moment. 

"Deborah!"  she  softly  exclaimed;  and  in  a  moment, 
"I  wonder." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  her  father  asked,  but  Laura 
evaded  his  question.  She  plied  him  with  her  inquiries 
for  a  few  minutes  longer,  then  turned  to  him  with  a  chal 
lenging  smile: 

"Well,  father,  don't  you  think  you  had  better  ask  me 
now  about  myself?"  He  looked  away  a  moment,  but 
turned  resolutely  back: 

"I  suppose  so.    When  did  you  land? " 

"This  morning,  dear,  from  Italy-— with  my  husband," 
she  replied.  And  Roger  started  slightly.  "I  want  you 
to  meet  him  soon,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered.  At  his  disturbed,  almost 
guilty  expression  Laura  laughed  a  little  and  rose  and 
came,  over  and  hugged  him  tight. 

"Oh,  but,  father  dearest — it's  working  out  so  splen 
didly!  I  want  you  to  know  him  and  see  for  yourself! 
We've  come  to  live  in  New  York  for  a  while — he  has  more 
to  do  here  about  war  supplies." 

"More  shrapnel,  eh,  machine  guns.  More  wholesale 
death,"  her  father  growled.  But  Laura  smiled  good- 
naturedly. 

"  Yes,  love,  from  America.  Aren't  you  all  ashamed  of 
yourselves — scrambling  so,  to  get  rich  quick — out  of  this 
war  you  disapprove  of." 


296  HIS  FAMILY 

"  You  look  a  bit  rich,"  her  father  retorted. 

"Rather — for  the  moment/7  was  her  cheerful  answer. 

"And  you  still  like  living  in  Italy? " 

*  *  Tremendously !    Rome  is  wonderful  now ! ' ' 

"Reborn,  eh.    Wings  of  the  Eagles." 

"Yes,  and  we're  doing  rather  well." 

"I  haven't  noticed  it,"  Roger  said.  "Why  don't  you 
send  a  few  of  your  troops  to  help  those  plucky  French 
men?" 

"Because,"  she  replied,  "we  have  a  feeling  that  this 
is  a  war  where  we  had  much  better  help  ourselves." 

"High  ideals,"  he  snorted. 

"  Rome  reborn,"  she  remarked,  unabashed.  And  her 
father  scowled  at  her  whimsically. 

"You're  a  heathen.  I  give  you  up,"  he  declared. 
Laura  had  risen,  smiling. 

"Oh,  no,  don't  give  me  up,"  she  said.  "For  you  see," 
she  added  softly,  "I'm  a  heathen  with  a  great  deal  of  love 
in  her  heart  for  thee,  my  dearest  dad.  May  I  bring 
him  down,  my  husband?" 

"Yes—" 

"I'll  telephone  to  Deborah  to-morrow  and  arrange  it." 

When  she  had  gone  he  returned  to  his  chair  and  sat 
for  a  long  time  in  a  daze.  He  was  still  disturbed  and 
bewildered.  What  a  daughter  of  his!  And  what  did  it 
mean?  Could  she  really  go  on  being  happy  like  this? 
Sinning?  Yes,  she  was  sinning!  Laura  had  broken  her 
marriage  vows,  she  had  "run  off  with  another  fellah." 
Those  were  the  plain  ugly  facts.  And  now,  divorced  and 
re-married,  she  was  careering  gayly  on!  And  her  views 
of  the  war  were  plain  heathenish!  And  yet  there  was 
something  about  her — yes,  he  thought,  he  loved  her  still! 
What  for?  For  being  so  happy!  And  yet  she  was  wrong 
to  be  happy,  all  wrong!  His  thoughts  went  'round  in 
circles. 

And  his  confusion  and  dismay  grew  even  deeper  the 


HIS  FAMILY  297 

next  night  when  Laura  brought  her  new  husband  to  dine. 
For  in  place  of  the  dark  polished  scoundrel  whom  Roger 
had  expected,  here  was  a  spruce  and  affable  youth  with 
thick  light  hair  and  ruddy  cheeks,  a  brisk  pleasant  manner 
of  talking  and  a  decidedly  forcible  way  of  putting  the 
case  of  his  country  at  war.  They  kept  the  conversation 
to  that.  For  despite  Deborah's  friendly  air,  she  showed 
plainly  that  she  wanted  to  keep  the  talk  impersonal. 
And  Laura,  rather  amused  at  this,  replied  by  treating 
Deborah  and  Allan  and  her  father,  too,  with  a  bantering 
forbearance  for  their  old-fashioned,  narrow  views  and 
Deborah's  religion  of  brotherhood,  democracy.  All  that 
to  Laura  was  passe. 

From  time  to  time  Roger  glanced  at  her  face,  into  her 
clear  and  luminous  eyes  so  warm  with  the  joy  of  living 
with  this  new  man,  her  second.  How  his  family  had 
split  apart.  He  wrote  Edith  the  news  of  her  sister,  and 
he  received  but  a  brief  reply.  Nor  did  Deborah  speak  of 
it  often.  She  seemed  to  want  to  forget  Laura's  life  as  the 
crisis  in  her  own  drew  near. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

DEBORAH  had  not  yet  stopped  work.  Again  and  again 
she  put  it  off.  For  in  her  busy  office  so  many  demands 
both  old  and  new  kept  pressing  in  upon  her,  such  unex 
pected  questions  and  vexing  little  problems  kept  cropping 
up  as  Deborah  tried  to  arrange  her  work  for  the  colleague 
who  was  to  take  her  place  in  the  spring,  that  day  after  day 
she  lingered  there — until  one  afternoon  in  March  her  hus 
band  went  to  her  office,  gave  her  an  hour  to  finish  up,  and 
then  brought  her  home  with  him.  She  had  a  fit  of  the 
blues  that  night.  Allan  was  called  out  on  a  case,  and  a 
little  while  later  Roger  found  his  daughter  alone  in  the 
living  room,  a  book  unopened  in  her  lap,  her  gray  eyes 
glistening  with  tears.  She  smiled  when  she  caught  sight 
of  him. 

"It's  so  silly!"  she  muttered  unsteadily.  "Just  my 
condition,  I  suppose.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  done  with 
school  for  the  remainder  of  my  days!  .  .  .  Better  leave 
me  now,  dearie,"  she  added.  "I'm  not  very  proud  of 
myself  to-night — but  I'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

The  next  day  she  was  herself  again,  and  went  quietly  on 
with  her  preparations  for  the  coming  of  her  child.  But 
still  the  ceaseless  interests  of  those  hordes  of  other  chil 
dren  followed  her  into  the  house.  Not  only  her  successor 
but  principals  and  teachers  came  for  counsel  or  assistance. 
And  later,  when  reluctantly  she  refused  to  see  such  visi 
tors,  still  the  telephone  kept  ringing  and  letters  poured  in 
by  every  mail.  For  in  her  larger  family  there  were 
weddings,  births  and  deaths,  and  the  endless  savage 
struggle  for  life;  and  there  were  many  climaxes  of  dreams 
and  aspirations,  of  loves  and  bitter  jealousies.  And  out 

298 


HIS  FAMILY  299 

of  all  this  straining  and  this  fever  of  humanity,  came  mes 
sages  to  Deborah:  last  appeals  for  aid  and  advice,  and 
gifts  for  the  child  who  was  to  be  born;  tiny  garments 
quaintly  made  by  women  and  girls  from  Italy,  from  Russia 
and  from  Poland;  baby  blankets,  wraps  and  toys  and 
curious  charms  and  amulets.  There  were  so  many  of 
these  gifts. 

" There's  enough  for  forty  babies/7  Deborah  told  her 
father.  "What  on  earth  am  I  to  do,  to  avoid  hurting 
anyone's  feelings?  And  isn't  it  rather  awful,  the  way 
these  inequalities  will  crop  up  in  spite  of  you?  I  know  of 
eight  tenement  babies  born  down  there  in  this  one  week. 
How  much  fuss  and  feathers  is  made  over  them,  and  their 
coming  into  the  world,  poor  mites?"  Roger  smiled  at  his 
daughter. 

"  You  remind  me  of  Jekyll  and  Hyde,"  he  said. 

"Father!  What  a  horrible  thought!  What  have 
Jekyll  and  Hyde  to  do  with  me?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear,"  he  answered.  "Only  it's  queer 
and  a  little  uncanny,  something  I've  never  seen  before, 
this  double  mother  life  of  yours." 

It  was  only  a  few  days  later  when  coming  home  one 
evening  he  found  that  Deborah's  doctor  had  put  her  to 
bed  and  installed  a  nurse.  There  followed  a  week  of  keen 
suspense  when  Roger  stayed  home  from  the  office.  She 
liked  to  have  him  with  her,  and  sitting  at  her  bedside  he 
saw  how  changed  his  daughter  was,  how  far  in  these  few 
hours  she  had  drawn  into  herself.  He  had  suspected  for 
some  time  that  all  was  not  well  with  Deborah,  and  Allan 
confirmed  his  suspicions.  There  was  to  be  grave  danger 
both  for  the  mother  and  the  child.  It  would  come  out  all 
right,  of  course,  he  strove  to  reassure  himself.  Nothing 
else  could  happen  now,  with  her  life  so  splendidly  settled 
at  last.  That  Fate  could  be  so  pitiless — no,  it  was  un 
thinkable  ! 


300  HIS  FAMILY 

"This  is  what  comes  of  your  modern  woman!"  Roger 
exclaimed  to  Allan  one  night.  "  This  is  the  price  she's 
paying  for  those  nerve-racking  years  of  work!" 

The  crisis  came  toward  the  end  of  the  week.  And 
while  for  one  entire  night  and  through  the  day  that  fol 
lowed  and  far  into  the  next  night  the  doctors  and 
nurses  fought  for  life  in  the  room  upstairs,  Roger  waited, 
left  to  himself,  sitting  in  his  study  or  restlessly  moving 
through  the  house.  And  still  that  thought  was  with  him 
— the  price!  It  was  kept  in  his  mind  by  the  anxious  de 
mands  which  her  big  family  made  for  news.  The  tele 
phone  kept  ringing.  Women  in  motors  from  uptown  and 
humbler  visitors  young  and  old  kept  coming  to  make  in 
quiries.  More  gifts  were  brought  and  flowers.  And 
Roger  saw  these  people,  and  as  he  answered  their  ques 
tions  he  fairly  scowled  in  their  faces — unconsciously,  for 
his  mind  was  not  clear.  Reporters  came.  Barely  an 
hour  passed  without  bringing  a  man  or  a  woman  from 
some  one  of  the  papers.  He  gave  them  only  brief  replies. 
Why  couldn't  they  leave  his  house  alone?  He  saw  her 
name  in  headlines:  "Deborah  Gale  at  Point  of  Death." 
And  he  turned  angrily  away.  Vividly,  on  the  second 
night,  there  came  to  him  a  picture  of  Deborah's  birth  so 
long  ago  in  this  same  house.  How  safe  it  had  been,  how 
different,  how  secluded  and  shut  in.  No  world  had 
clamored  then  for  news.  And  so  vivid  did  this  picture 
grow,  that  when  at  last  there  came  to  his  ears  the  shrill 
clear  cry  of  a  new  life,  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  be 
sure  whether  this  were  not  still  his  dream  of  that  other 
night  so  long  ago. 

But  now  a  nurse  had  led  him  upstairs,  and  he  stood  by  a 
cradle  looking  down  at  a  small  wrinkled  face  almost 
wholly  concealed  by  a  soft  woolly  blanket.  And  presently 
Allan  behind  him  said, 

"It's  a  boy,  and  he's  to  be  named  after  you."  Roger 
looked  up. 


HIS  FAMILY  301 

"How's  the  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Almost  out  of  danger,"  was  the  reply.  Then  Roger 
glanced  at  Allan's  face  and  saw  how  drawn  and  gray  it 
was.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  turned  back  to  the 
child.  Allan  had  gone  and  so  had  the  nurse,  and  he  was 
alone  by  the  cradle.  Relief  and  peace  and  happiness 
stole  into  his  spirit.  He  felt  the  deep  remoteness  of  this 
strange  new  little  creature  from  all  the  clamoring  world 
without — which  he  himself  was  soon  to  leave.  The 
thought  grew  clearer,  clearer,  as  with  a  curious  steady 
smile  Roger  stood  there  looking  down. 

"Well,  little  brother,  you're  here,  thank  God.  And 
nobody  knows  how  close  we'll  be — for  a  little  while,"  he 
thought.  "  For  we're  almost  out  of  the  world,  you  and  I." 

Days  passed,  Deborah's  strength  increased,  and  soon 
they  let  Roger  come  into  the  room.  She,  too,  was  remote 
from  the  world  for  a  time.  That  great  family  outside 
was  anxious  no  longer,  it  left  her  alone.  But  soon  it 
would  demand  her.  Never  again,  he  told  himself,  would 
she  be  so  close,  so  intimate,  as  here  in  her  bed  with  this 
child  of  hers  to  whom  she  had  given  her  father's  name. 
"These  hours  are  my  real  good-byes." 

Two  long  quiet  weeks  of  this  happiness,  and  then  in  a 
twinkling  it  was  gone.  The  child  fell  sick,  within  a  few 
hours  its  small  existence  hung  by  a  thread — and  to  Roger's 
startled  eyes  a  new  Deborah  was  revealed!  Tense  and 
silent  on  her  bed,  her  sensitive  lips  compressed  with  pain, 
her  birthmark  showing  a  jagged  line  of  fiery  red  upon  her 
brow  as  her  ears  kept  straining  to  catch  every  sound  from 
the  nursery  adjoining,  through  hours  of  stern  anguish  she 
became  the  kind  of  mother  that  she  had  once  so  dreaded — 
shutting  out  everything  else  in  the  world:  people,  schools, 
all  other  children,  rich  or  poor,  well,  sick  or  dying!  Here 
was  the  crisis  of  Deborah's  life! 

One  night  as  she  lay  listening,  with  her  hand  gripping 


302  HIS  FAMILY 

Roger's  tight,  frowning  abruptly  she  said  to  him,  in  a 
harsh,  unnatural  voice: 

"They  don't  care  any  longer,  none  of  them  care!  I'm 
safe  and  they've  stopped  worrying,  for  they  know  they'll 
soon  have  me  back  at  work!  The  work,"  she  added 
fiercely,  "that  made  my  body  what  it  is,  not  fit  to  bear  a 
baby!"  She  threw  a  quick  and  tortured  look  toward  the 
door  of  the  other  room.  "My  work  for  those  others,  all 
those  years,  will  be  to  blame  if  this  one  dies!  And  if  it 
doesn't  live  I'm  through!  I  won't  go  on!  I  couldn't! 
I'd  be  too  bitter  after  this — toward  all  of  them — those 
children!" 

These  last  two  words  were  whispers  so  bitter  they  made 
Roger  cold. 

"But  this  child  is  going  to  live,"  he  responded  hoarsely. 
Its  mother  stared  up  with  a  quivering  frown.  The  next 
moment  her  limbs  contracted  as  from  an  electric  shock. 
There  had  come  a  faint  wail  from  the  other  room. 

And  this  went  on  for  three  days  and  nights.  Again 
Roger  lived  as  in  a  dream.  He  saw  haggard  faces  from 
time  to  time  of  doctors,  nurses,  servants.  He  saw  Allan 
now  and  then,  his  tall  ungainly  figure  stooped,  his  features 
gaunt,  his  strong  wide  jaw  set  like  a  vise,  but  his  eyes  kind 
and  steady  still,  his  low  voice  reassuring.  And  Roger  no 
ticed  John  at  times  hobbling  quickly  down  a  hall  and 
stopping  on  his  crutches  before  a  closed  door,  listening. 
Then  these  figures  would  recede,  and  it  was  as  though  he 
were  alone  in  the  dark. 

At  last  the  nightmare  ended.  One  afternoon  as  he  sat 
in  his  study,  Allan  came  in  slowly  and  dropped  exhausted 
into  a  chair.  He  turned  to  Roger  with  a  smile. 

"Safe  now,  I  think,"  he  said  quietly. 

Roger  went  to  Deborah  and  found  her  asleep,  her  face 
at  peace.  He  went  to  his  room  and  fell  himself  into  a  long 
dreamless  slumber. 

In  the  days  which  followed,  again  he  sat  at  her  bedside  and 


HIS  FAMILY  303 

together  they  watched  the  child  in  her  arms.  So  feeble 
still  the  small  creature  appeared  that  they  both  spoke  in 
whispers.  But  as  little  by  little  its  strength  returned, 
Deborah  too  became  herself.  And  though  still  jealously 
watchful  of  its  every  movement,  she  had  time  for  other 
thinking.  She  had  talks  with  her  husband,  not  only 
about  their  baby  but  about  his  work  and  hers.  Slowly 
her  old  interest  in  all  they  had  had  in  common  returned, 
and  to  the  messages  from  outside  she  gave  again  a  kindlier 
ear. 

"  Allan  tells  me,"  she  said  one  day,  when  she  was  alone 
with  her  father,  "that  I  can  have  no  more  children.  And 
I'm  glad  of  that.  But  at  least  I  have  one,"  she  added, 
"and  he  has  already  made  me  feel  like  a  different  woman 
than  before.  I  feel  sometimes  as  though  I'd  come  a  mil 
lion  miles  along  in  life.  And  yet  again  it  feels  so  close,  all 
that  I  left  back  there  in  school.  Because  I'm  so  much 
closer  now — to  every  mother  and  every  child.  At  last 
I'm  one  of  the  family." 


CHAPTER  XLII 

OF  that  greater  family,  one  member  had  been  in  the 
house  all  through  the  month  which  had  just  gone  by.  But 
he  had  been  so  quiet,  so  carefully  unobtrusive,  that  he 
had  been  scarcely  noticed.  Very  early  each  morning, 
day  after  day,  John  had  gone  outside  for  his  breakfast 
and  thence  to  the  office  where  he  himself  had  handled 
the  business  as  well  as  he  could,  only  coming  to  Roger 
at  night  now  and  then  with  some  matter  he  could  not 
settle  alone,  but  always  stoutly  declaring  that  he  needed 
no  other  assistance. 

"Don't  come,  Mr.  Gale,"  he  had  urged.  "You  look 
worn  out.  You'll  be  sick  yourself  if  you  ain't  careful. 
And  anyhow,  if  you  hang  around  you'll  be  here  whenever 
she  wants  you." 

Early  in  Deborah's  illness,  John  had  offered  to  give 
up  his  room  for  the  use  of  one  of  the  nurses. 

"That's  mighty  thoughtful  of  you,  Johnny,"  Allan 
had  responded.  "But  we've  got  plenty  of  room  as  it  is. 
Just  you  stick  around.  We  want  you  here." 

"All  right,  Doc.  If  there's  any  little  thing,  you  know — 
answering  the  'phone  at  night  or  anything  else  that  I 
can  do — " 

"Thank  you,  son,  I'll  let  you  know.  But  in  the  mean 
time  go  to  bed." 

From  that  day  on,  John  had  taken  not  only  his  break 
fast  but  his  supper,  too,  outside,  and  no  one  had  noticed 
his  absence.  Coming  in  late,  he  had  hobbled  silently 
up  to  his  room,  stopping  to  listen  at  Deborah's  door. 
He  had  kept  so  completely  out  of  the  way,  it  was  not 

304 


HIS  FAMILY  305 

till  the  baby  was  three  weeks  old,  and  past  its  second 
crisis,  that  Deborah  thought  to  ask  for  John.  When  he 
came  to  her  bed,  she  smiled  up  at  him  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms. 

"I  thought  we'd  see  him  together,"  she  said.  John 
stood  on  his  crutches  staring  down.  And  as  Deborah 
watched  him,  all  at  once  her  look  grew  intent.  "Johnny," 
she  said  softly,  "go  over  there,  will  you,  and  turn  up  the 
light,  so  we  can  see  him  better." 

And  when  this  was  done,  though  she  still  talked  smil 
ingly  of  the  child,  again  and  again  she  glanced  up  at 
John's  face,  at  the  strange  self-absorbed  expression,  stern 
and  sad  and  wistful,  there.  When  he  had  gone  the  tears 
came  in  her  eyes.  And  Deborah  sent  for  her  husband. 

The  next  day,  at  the  office,  John  came  into  Roger's 
room.  Roger  had  been  at  work  several  days  and  they  had 
already  cleared  up  their  affairs. 

"Here's  something,"  said  John  gruffly,  "that  I  wish 
you'd  put  away  somewhere." 

And  he  handed  to  his  partner  a  small  blue  leather  album, 
filled  with  the  newspaper  clippings  dealing  with  Deborah's 
illness.  On  the  front  page  was  one  with  her  picture  and  a 
long  record  of  her  service  to  the  children  of  New  York. 

"She  wouldn't  want  to  see  it  now,"  John  continued 
awkwardly.  "But  I  thought  maybe  later  on  the  boy 
would  like  to  have  it.  What  do  you  think?"  he  inquired. 
Roger  gave  him  a  kindly  glance. 

"I  think  he  will.  It's  a  fine  thing  to  keep."  And  he 
handed  it  back.  "But  I  guess  you'd  better  put  it  away, 
and  give  it  to  her  later  yourself." 

John  shifted  his  weight  on  his  crutches,  so  quickly  that 
Roger  looked  up  in  alarm : 

"Look  here!  You're  not  well!"  He  saw  now  that  the 
face  of  the  cripple  was  white  and  the  sweat  was  glistening 
on  his  brow.  John  gave  a  harsh  little  nervous  laugh. 


306  HIS  FAMILY 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  much,  partner,"  he  replied.  " That's 
another  thing  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  I've  had  some  queer 
pains  lately — new  ones!"  He  caught  his  breath. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  you  young  fool?" 

"You  had  your  own  troubles,  didn't  you?"  John 
spoke  with  difficulty.  "But  I'll  be  all  right,  I  guess! 
All  I  need  is  a  few  days  off!" 

Roger  had  pressed  a  button,  and  his  stenographer 
came  in. 

"Call  a  taxi,"  he  said  sharply.  "And,  John,  you  go 
right  over  there  and  lie  down.  I'm  going  to  take  you 
home  at  once!" 

"I've  got  a  better  scheme,"  said  John,  setting  his  de 
termined  jaws.  The  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  cheeks. 
"It  may  be  a  week — but  there's  just  a  chance  it — may 
be  a  little  worse  than  that!  So  I've  got  a  room  in  a  hospi 
tal!  See?  Be  better  all  round!"  He  swayed  forward. 

"Johnny!"  Roger  caught  him  just  in  time,  and  the 
boy  lay  senseless  in  his  arms. 

At  home,  a  few  hours  later,  Allan  came  with  another 
physician  down  from  John's  small  bedroom.  He  saw  his 
colleague  to  the  door  and  then  came  in  to  Roger. 

"I'm  afraid  Johnny  has  come  to  the  end." 

For  a  moment  Roger  stared  at  him. 

"Has,  eh,"  he  answered  huskily.  "You're  absolutely 
sure  he  has?  There's  nothing — nothing  on  earth  we  can 
do?" 

"Nothing  more  than  we're  doing  now." 

"He  has  fooled  you  fellows  before,  you  know —  " 

"Not  this  time." 

"How  long  will  it  be?" 

"Days  or  hours — I  don't  know." 

"He  mustn't  suffer!" 

"I'll  see  to  that."    Roger  rose  and  walked  the  floor. 

"It  was  the  last  month  did  it,  of  course — " 


HIS  FAMILY  307 

"Yes—" 

"I  blame  myself  for  that." 

"I  wouldn't,"  said  Allan  gently.  "  You've  done  a  good 
deal  for  Johnny  Geer." 

11  Re  has  done  a  good  deal  for  this  family!  Can  Debo 
rah  see  him?" 

"I  wish  she  could." 

"Better  stretch  a  point  for  her,  hadn't  you?  She's 
been  a  kind  of  a  mother  to  John." 

"I  know.    But  she  can't  leave  her  bed." 

"Then  you  won't  tell  her?" 

"I  think  she  knows.  She  talked  to  me  about  him  last 
night." 

"That's  it,  a  mother!"  Roger  cried.  "She  was  watch 
ing!  We  were  blind!"  He  came  back  to  his  chair  and 
dropped  into  it. 

"Does  John  know  this  himself?"  he  asked. 

"He  suspects  it,  I  think,"  said  Allan. 

"Then  go  and  tell  him,  will  you,  that  he's  going  to  get 
well.  And  after  you've  done  it  I'll  see  him  myself.  I've 
got  something  in  mind  I  want  to  think  out." 

After  Allan  had  left  the  room,  Roger  sat  thinking  about 
John.  He  thought  of  John's  birth  and  his  drunken 
mother,  the  accident  and  his  struggle  for  life,  through 
babyhood  and  childhood,  through  ignorance  and  filth 
and  pain,  through  din  and  clamor  and  hunger,  fear;  of 
the  long  fierce  fight  which  John  had  made  not  to  be  "put 
away"  in  some  big  institution,  of  his  battle  to  keep  up 
his  head,  to  be  somebody,  make  a  career  for  himself.  He 
thought  of  John's  becoming  one  of  Deborah's  big  family, 
only  one  of  thousands,  but  it  seemed  now  to  Roger  that 
John  had  stood  out  from  them  all,  as  the  figure  best  em 
bodying  that  great  fierce  hunger  for  a  full  life,  and  as 
the  link  connecting,  the  one  who  slowly  year  by  year 
had  emerged  from  her  greater  family  and  come  into  her 
small  one.  And  last  of  all  he  thought  of  John  as  his  own 


308  HIS  FAMILY 

companion,  his  only  one,  in  the  immense  adventure  on 
which  he  was  so  soon  to  embark. 

A  few  moments  later  he  stood  by  John's  bed. 

" Pretty  hard,  Johnny?"  he  gently  asked. 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  it  might  be,  I  guess — •" 

"  You'll  soon  feel  better,  they  tell  me,  boy."  John 
shut  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered. 

"Can  you  stand  my  talking,  just  a  minute?" 

"Sure  I  can,"  John  whispered.  "I'm  not  suffering 
any  now.  He's  given  me  something  to  put  me  to  sleep. 
What  is  it  you  want  to  talk  about?  Business?" 

"Not  exactly,  partner.  It's  about  the  family.  You've 
got  so  you're  almost  one  of  us.  I  guess  you  know  us  pretty 
well." 

"I  guess  I  do,    It's  meant  a  lot  to  me,  Mr.  Gale — " 

"But  I'll  tell  you  what  you  don't  know,  John,"  Roger 
went  on  slowly.  "I  had  a  son  in  the  family  once,  and 
he  died  when  he  was  three  months  old.  That  was  a  long 
time  ago — and  I  never  had  another,  you  see — to  take 
his  place — till  you  came  along."  There  fell  a  breathless 
silence.  "And  I've  been  thinking  lately,"  Roger  added 
steadily.  "I  haven't  long  to  live,  you  know.  And  I've 
been  wondering  whether — you'd  like  to  come  into  the 
family — take  my  name.  Do  you  understand?" 

John  said  nothing.  His  eyes  were  still  closed.  But 
presently,  groping  over  the  bed,  he  found  Roger's  hand 
and  clutched  it  tight.  After  this,  from  time  to  time  his 
throat  contracted  sharply.  Tears  welled  from  under  his 
eyelids.  Then  gradually,  as  the  merciful  drug  which 
Allan  had  given  did  its  work,  his  clutch  relaxed  and  he 
began  breathing  deep  and  hard.  But  still  for  some  time 
longer  Roger  sat  quietly  by  his  side. 

The  next  night  he  was  there  again.  Death  had  come 
to  the  huddled  form  on  the  bed,  but  there  had  been  no 
relaxing.  With  the  head  thrown  rigidly  far  back  and 


HIS  FAMILY  309 

all  the  features  tense  and  hard,  it  was  a  fighting  figure 
still,  a  figure  of  stern  protest  against  the  world's  injustice. 
But  Roger  was  riot  thinking  of  this,  but  of  the  discovery 
he  had  made,  that  in  their  talk  of  the  night  before  John 
had  understood  him — completely.  For  upon  a  piece  of 
paper  which  Allan  had  given  the  lad  that  day,  these  words 
had  been  painfully  inscribed: 

"This  is  my  last  will  and  testament.  I  am  in  my  right 
mind — I  know  what  I  am  doing — though  nobody  else 
does — nobody  is  here.  To  my  partner  Roger  Gale  I 
leave  my  share  in  our  business.  And  to  my  teacher  Deb 
orah  Baird  I  leave  my  crutches  for  her  school." 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

AFTER  John  had  gone  away  the  house  was  very  quiet. 
Only  from  the  room  upstairs  there  could  be  heard  occa 
sionally  the  faint  clear  cry  of  Deborah's  child.  And  once 
again  to  Roger  came  a  season  of  repose.  He  was  far  from 
unhappy.  His  disease,  although  progressing  fast,  gave 
him  barely  any  pain;  it  rather  made  its  presence  felt  by 
the  manner  in  which  it  affected  his  mind.  His  inner  life 
grew  uneven.  At  times  his  thoughts  were  as  in  a  fog, 
again  they  were  amazingly  clear  and  vistas  opened  far 
ahead.  He  could  not  control  his  thinking. 

This  bothered  him  at  the  office,  in  the  work  he  still  had 
to  do.  For  some  months  he  had  been  considering  an  offer 
from  one  of  his  rivals,  a  modern  concern  which  wished  to 
buy  out  his  business  together  with  that  of  three  other 
firms  and  consolidate  them  all  into  one  corporation.  And 
Roger  was  selling,  and  it  was  hard;  for  the  whole  idea  of 
bargaining  was  more  distasteful  than  ever  now.  He  had 
to  keep  reminding  himself  of  Edith  and  her  children. 

At  last  it  was  over,  his  books  were  closed,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  to  be  done.  Nor  did  he  care  to  linger.  These 
rooms  had  meant  but  little  to  him;  they  had  been  but  a 
place  of  transition  from  the  old  office  far  downtown,  so 
full  of  memories  of  his  youth,  to  the  big  corporation  loom 
ing  ahead,  the  huge  impersonal  clipping  mill  into  which 
his  business  was  to  merge.  And  it  came  to  his  mind  that 
New  York  was  like  that — no  settled  calm  abiding  place 
cherishing  its  memories,  but  only  a  town  of  transition,  a 
great  turbulent  city  of  change,  restlessly  shaking  off  its 
past,  tearing  down  and  building  anew,  building  higher, 
higher,  higher,  rearing  to  the  very  stars,  and  shouting, 

310 


HIS  FAMILY  311 

"Can  you  see  me  now?"  What  was  the  goal  of  this  mad 
career?  What  dazzling  city  would  be  here?  For  a  time 
he  stared  out  of  his  window  as  into  a  promised  land. 
Slowly  at  last  he  rose  from  his  desk.  Clippings,  clippings, 
clippings.  He  looked  at  those  long  rows  of  girls  gleaning 
in  items  large  and  small  the  public  reputations  of  all  kinds 
of  men  and  women,  new  kinds  in  a  new  nation  seething 
with  activities,  sweeping  on  like  some  wide  river  swollen 
at  flood  season  to  a  new  America,  a  world  which  Roger 
would  not  know.  And  yet  it  would  be  his  world  still, 
for  in  it  he  would  play  a  part. 

"In  their  lives,  too,  we  shall  be  there — the  dim  strong 
figures  of  the  past." 

From  his  desk  he  gathered  a  few  belongings.  Then  he 
looked  into  John's  small  room,  with  the  big  gold  motto 
over  the  desk:  "This  is  no  place  for  your  troubles  or 
mine."  On  the  desk  lay  that  small  album,  John's  parting 
gift  to  Deborah's  boy.  Roger  picked  it  up  and  walked 
out  of  the  office.  He  had  never  liked  good-byes. 

In  the  elevator  he  noticed  that  his  shoes  needed  shining, 
and  when  he  reached  the  street  below  he  stopped  at  the 
stand  on  the  corner.  The  stocky  Greek  with  bushy  black 
hair,  who  had  run  the  stand  for  many  years,  gave  him  a 
cheery  greeting;  for  Roger  had  stopped  there  frequently 
— not  that  he  cared  about  his  shoes,  but  he  had  always 
liked  to  watch  the  crowds  of  people  passing. 

"No  hurry,  boss?" 

"None,"  said  Roger. 

"Then  I  give  a  fine  shine!     Polish,  too?" 

"Yes,  polish,  too."  And  Roger  settled  back  to  watch. 
"And  put  in  new  shoe  strings,"  he  added,  with  a  whimsical 
smile. 

Men  and  women,  girls  and  boys  by  thousands  passed 
him,  pushing,  hurrying,  shuffling  by.  Girls  tittering  and 
nudging  and  darting  quick  side  glances.  Bobbing  heads 
and  figures,  vigorous  steps  and  dancing  eyes.  Life 


312  HIS  FAMILY 

bubbling  over  everywhere,  in  laughter,  in  sharp  angry 
tones,  in  glad  expectant  chatter.  Deborah's  big  family. 
Across  the  street  was  a  movie  between  two  lurid  posters, 
and  there  was  a  dance  hall  overhead.  The  windows  were 
all  open,  and  faintly  above  the  roar  of  the  street  he  could 
hear  the  piano,  drum,  fiddle  and  horn.  The  thoroughfare 
each  moment  grew  more  tumultuous  to  his  ears,  with 
trolley  cars  and  taxis,  motor  busses,  trucks  and  drays.  A 
small  red  motor  dashed  uptown  with  piles  of  evening 
papers;  a  great  black  motor  hearse  rushed  by.  In  a  taxi 
which  had  stopped  in  a  jam,  a  man  was  kissing  a  girl  in  his 
arms,  and  both  of  them  were  laughing.  The  smart  little 
toque  of  blue  satin  she  wore  was  crushed  to  one  side. 
How  red  were  her  lips  as  she  threw  back  her  head.  .  .  . 

"  Silk  or  cotton,  boss?  Which  you  like?  "  Roger  glanced 
at  the  shoe  strings  and  pondered. 

"Silk,"  he  grunted  in  reply.  Idly  for  a  moment  he 
watched  this  busy  little  man.  From  whence  had  he  come 
in  far  away  Greece?  What  existence  had  he  here,  and 
what  kind  of  life  would  he  still  have  through  those  many 
years  to  come?  A  feeling  half  of  sadness  crept  into 
Roger's  heavy  eyes  as  he  looked  at  the  man,  at  his  smiling 
face  and  then  at  other  faces  in  the  multitudes  sweeping 
past.  The  moment  he  tried  to  single  them  out,  how 
doubly  chaotic  it  became.  What  an  ocean  of  warm 
desires,  passions,  vivid  hopes  and  worries.  Vaguely  hev 
could  feel  them  pass.  Often  in  the  midst  of  his  life,  his 
active  and  self-centered  life,  Roger  had  looked  at  these 
crowds  on  the  street  and  had  thought  these  faces  common 
place.  But  now  at  the  end  it  was  not  so. 

A  woman  with  a  baby  carriage  stopped  directly  in  front 
of  him  and  stood  there  anxiously  watching  for  a  chance 
to  cross  the  street.  And  Roger  thought  of  Deborah. 
Heavily  he  climbed  down  from  his  seat,  paid  the  man  and 
bade  him  good-night,  and  went  home  to  see  Deborah's 
baby. 


HIS  FAMILY  313 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  by  the  cradle.  Presently 
Deborah  joined  him,  and  soon  they  were  laughing 
heartily  at  the  astonishing  jerks  and  kicks  and  grimaces 
of  the  tiny  boy.  He  was  having  his  bath  and  he  hated  it. 
But  safe  at  last  on  his  mother's  lap,  wrapped  to  his  ears 
in  a  big  soft  towel,  he  grew  very  gay  and  contented  and 
looked  waggishly  about. 

There  followed  long  lazy  days  of  spring,  as  April  drifted 
into  May.  Early  in  the  morning  Roger  could  hear 
through  his  window  the  cries  of  the  vendors  of  flowers 
and  fruits.  And  he  listened  drowsily.  He  rose  late  and 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  the  house;  but  occasionally 
he  went  out  for  a  stroll.  And  one  balmy  evening  when 
groups  of  youths  came  trooping  by,  singing  in  close  har 
mony,  Roger  called  a  taxi  and  went  far  down  through  the 
tenement  streets  to  a  favorite  haunt  of  his,  a  little  Syrian 
pawnshop,  where  after  long  delving  he  purchased  a  ring 
to  put  in  the  new  collection  that  he  had  been  making 
lately.  He  had  nearly  a  dozen  now. 

Days  passed.  The  house  was  still  so  quiet,  Deborah 
was  still  upstairs.  At  last,  one  night  upon  leaving  his 
study,  he  stopped  uncertainly  in  the  hall.  He  took  more 
time  than  was  his  wont  in  closing  up  the  house  for  the 
night,  in  trying  all  the  windows,  in  turning  out  the  various 
lights.  Room  after  room  he  left  in  the  dark.  Then  he 
went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  his  hand  gratefully  feeling  those 
guiding  points  grown  so  familiar  to  his  touch  through 
many  thousand  evenings.  His  hand  lingered  on  the 
banister  and  he  stopped  again  to  listen  there. 

He  did  not  come  downstairs  again. 

He  was  able  to  sleep  but  little  at  night.  Turning  rest 
lessly  on  his  bed,  he  would  glance  out  of  the  window  up  at 
the  beetling  wall  close  by,  tier  on  tier  of  apartments  from 
which  faint  voices  dropped  out  of  the  dark.  Gradually 
as  the  night  wore  on,  these  voices  would  all  die  away  into 
long  mysterious  silences — for  to  him  at  least  such  silences 


314  HIS  FAMILY 

had  grown  to  be  very  mysterious.  Alone  in  the  hours 
that  followed,  even  these  modern  neighbors  and  this 
strange  new  eager  town  pressing  down  upon  his  house 
seemed  no  longer  strange  to  him  nor  so  appallingly  im 
mense,  seemed  even  familiar  and  small  to  him,  as  the  eyes 
of  his  mind  looked  out  ahead. 

From  his  bed  he  could  see  on  the  opposite  wall  the 
picture  Judith  had  given  him,  always  so  fresh  and  cool 
and  dim  with  its  deep  restful  tones  of  blue,  of  the  herds 
men  and  the  cattle  on  the  dark  mountain  rim  at  dawn. 
And  vaguely  he  wondered  whether  it  was  because  he  saw 
more  clearly,  or  whether  his  mind  in  this  curious  haze 
could  no  longer  see  so  well,  that  as  he  looked  before  him 
he  felt  no  fear  nor  any  more  uncertainty.  All  his  doubts 
had  lifted,  he  was  so  sure  of  Judith  now.  As  though  she 
were  coming  to  meet  him,  her  image  grew  more  vivid, 
with  memories  emerging  out  of  all  the  years  gone  by. 
What  memories,  what  vivid  scenes!  What  intimate  con 
versations  they  had,  her  voice  so  natural,  close  in  his  ear, 
as  together  they  planned  for  their  children.  .  .  .  Wistfully 
he  would  search  the  years  for  what  he  should  soon  tell  his 
wife — until  the  drowsiness  returned,  and  then  again  came 
visions. 

But  by  day  it  was  not  so,  for  the  life  of  the  house  would 
rouse  him  and  at  intervals  hold  his  attention. 

One  evening  a  slight  rustle,  a  faint  fragrance  in  the 
room,  made  Rogpr  suddenly  open  his  eyes.  And  he  saw 
Laura  by  his  bed,  her  slender  figure  clad  in  blue  silk, 
something  white  at  her  full  bosom.  He  noticed  her 
shapely  shoulders,  her  glossy  hair  and  moist  red  lips. 
She  was  smiling  down  at  him. 

"See  what  I've  brought  you,  dear,"  she  said.  And 
she  turned  to  a  chair  where,  one  on  the  other,  tray  after 
tray,  was  piled  his  whole  collection  of  rings.  At  sight  of 
them  his  eyes  grew  fixed;  he  could  feel  his  pulse  beat 
faster. 


HIS  FAMILY  315 

"How  did  you  ever  find  them?"  he  asked  his  daughter 
huskily. 

"Oh,  I  had  a  long  hunt  all  by  myself.  But  I  found 
them  at  last  and  I've  brought  them  home.  Shall  we  look 
them  over  a  little  while?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  She  turned  up  the  light,  and  came 
and  sat  down  at  the  bedside  with  a  tray  of  rings  in  her  lap. 
One  by  one  she  held  them  up  to  his  gaze,  still  smiling  and 
talking  softly  on  in  that  rich  melodious  voice  of  hers,  of 
which  he  heard  but  snatches.  How  good  it  felt  to  be  so 
gay.  No  solemn  thoughts  nor  questionings,  just  these 
dusky  glittering  beauties  here,  deep  soft  gleams  of  color, 
each  with  its  suggestion  of  memories  for  Roger,  a  pro 
cession  of  adventures  reaching  back  into  his  life.  He 
smiled  and  lay  in  silence  watching,  until  at  last  she  bent 
over  him,  kissed  him  softly,  breathed  a  good-night  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  Roger  followed  her  with  his  glance. 
He  knew  he  would  never  see  her  again.  How  graceful 
of  her  to  go  like  that. 

He  lay  there  thinking  about  her.  In  her  large  blue 
limousine  he  saw  his  gay  young  daughter  speeding  up  the 
Avenue,  the  purple  gleaming  pavement  reflecting  studded 
lines  of  lights.  And  he  thought  he  could  see  her  smiling 
still.  He  recalled  scattered  fragments  of  her  life — the  first 
luxurious  little  menage,  and  the  second.  How  many 
more  would  there  be?  She  was  only  in  her  twenties  still. 
Uneasily  he  tried  to  see  into  the  years*-  ahead  for  her, 
and  he  thought  he  saw  a  lonely  old  age,  childless,  love 
less,  cynical,  hard.  But  this  fear  soon  fell  from  his  mind. 
No,  whatever  happened,  she  would  do  it  gracefully,  an 
artist  always,  to  the  end.  He  sighed  and  gave  up  the 
effort.  For  he  could  not  think  of  Laura  as  old,  nor  could 
he  think  of  her  any  more  as  being  a  part  of  his  family. 

Edith  came  to  him  several  times,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  her  face  which  gave  him  sharp  forebodings.  Mak 
ing  a  great  effort  he  tried  to  talk  to  her  clearly. 


316  HIS  FAMILY 

"It's  hard  to  keep  up  with  your  children,"  he  said. 
"It  means  keeping  up  with  everything  new.  And  you 
stay  in  your  rut  and  then  it's  too  late.  Before  you  know 
it  you  are  old." 

But  his  words  subsided  in  mutterings,  and  Roger 
wearily  closed  his  eyes.  For  a  glance  up  into  Edith's  face 
had  shown  him  only  pity  there  and  no  heed  to  his  warn 
ing.  He  saw  that  she  looked  upon  him  as  old  and  still 
upon  herself  as  young,  though  he  noticed  the  threads  of 
gray  in  her  hair.  .  .  .  Then  he  realized  she  had  gone  and 
that  his  chamber  had  grown  dark.  He  must  have  been 
dreaming.  Of  what,  he  asked.  He  tried  to  remember. 
And  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness,  so  harsh  and  clear  it 
startled  him,  a  picture  rose  in  Roger's  mind  of  a  stark 
lonely  figure,  a  woman  in  a  graveyard  cutting  the  grass  on 
family  graves.  Where  had  he  seen  it?  He  could  not  re 
call.  What  had  it  to  do  with  Edith?  Was  she  not  living 
in  New  York?  .  .  .  What  had  so  startled  him  just  now? 
Some  thought,  some  vivid  picture,  some  nightmare  he 
could  not  recall. 

His  last  talks  were  with  Deborah.  All  through  those 
days  and  the  long  nights,  too,  he  kept  fancying  she  was 
in  the  room,  and  it  brought  deep  balm  to  his  restless  soul. 
He  asked  her  to  tell  him  about  the  schools,  and 
Deborah  talked  to  him  quietly.  She  was  going  back  to 
her  work  in  the  fall.  She  felt  very  humble  about  it — 
she  told  him  she  felt  older  now  and  she  saw  that  her  work 
was  barely  begun.  But  she  was  even  happier  than  before. 
Her  hand  lay  in  his,  and  it  tightened  there.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  up  into  hers. 

"All  so  strange,"  he  muttered,  "life."  There  was  a 
sharp  contracting  of  her  wide  and  sensitive  mouth. 

"Yes,  dearie,  strange!"  she  whispered. 

"But  I'm  so  glad  you're  going  on."  He  frowned  as  he 
tried  to  be  simple  and  clear,  and  make  her  feel  he  under 
stood  what  she  had  set  herself  to  do.  "All  people,"  he 


HIS  FAMILY  317 

said  slowly,  "never  counted  so  much  as  now.  And 
never  so  hungry — all — as  now — for  all  of  life — like  chil 
dren — children  who  should  go  to  school.  Your  work  will 
grow — I  can  see  ahead.  Never  a  time  when  every  man 
and  woman  and  child  could  grow  so  much — and  hand  it 
on — and  hand  it  on — as  you  will  do  to  your  small  son." 

He  felt  her  hand  on  his  forehead,  and  for  some  moments 
nothing  was  said.  Vaguely  in  glimpses  Roger  saw  his 
small  grandson  growing  up;  and  he  pictured  other  chil 
dren  here,  not  her  own  but  of  her  greater  family,  as  the 
two  merged  into  one.  He  felt  that  she  would  not  grow 
old.  Children,  lives  of  children;  work,  dreams  and  aspira 
tions.  How  bright  it  seemed  as  he  stared  ahead.  Then 
he  heard  the  cry  of  her  baby. 

" Shall  I  nurse  him  here?"  he  heard  her  ask.  He 
pressed  her  hand  in  answer.  And  when  again  he  opened 
his  eyes  she  was  by  his  side  with  the  child  at  her  breast. 
Its  large  round  eyes,  so  pure  and  clear,  gazed  into  his  own 
for  a  long,  long  time. 

"Now  he's  so  sleepy,"  she  whispered.  "Would  you 
like  him  beside  you  a  moment?" 

"Please." 

He  felt  the  faint  scent  of  the  tiny  boy,  and  still  those 
eyes  looked  into  his.  He  forgot  his  daughter  standing 
there;  and  as  he  watched,  a  sweet  fresh  sense  of  the  mys 
tery  of  this  life  so  new  stole  deep  into  his  spirit.  All  at 
once  the  baby  fell  asleep. 

"Good-night,  little  brother,"  he  whispered.  "God 
grant  the  world  be  very  kind."  He  could  feel  the  mother 
lift  it  up,  and  he  heard  the  door  close  softly. 

Smiling  he,  too,  fell  asleep.  And  after  that  there  were 
only  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

AND  his  dreams  were  of  children.  Their  faces  passed 
before  him.  Now  they  were  young  again  in  the  house. 
They  were  eating  their  suppers,  three  small  girls,  chatter 
ing  like  magpies.  From  her  end  of  the  table  their  mother 
smiled  quietly  across  at  him.  "Come  children,"  she  was 
saying,  "that  will  do  for  a  little  while."  But  Roger  said, 
"Oh,  let  them  talk."  .  .  .  Then  he  saw  new-comers. 
Bruce  came  in  with  Edith,  and  George  and  young  Eliza 
beth,  and  Allan  came  with  Deborah  who  had  a  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  Laura  stood  beside  them.  Here  were  his  three 
daughters,  grown,  but  still  in  some  uncanny  way  they 
looked  to  him  like  children  still;  and  behind  them  he  de 
tected  figures  long  forgotten,  of  boys  and  girls  whom  he 
had  known  far  back  in  his  own  childhood.  John,  too,  had 
come  into  the  house.  Strangely  now  the  walls  were  gone, 
had  lifted,  and  a  clamorous  throng,  laughing,  shouting, 
pummeling,  hedged  him  in  on  every  hand — Deborah's  big 
family! 

Soon  the  uproar  wearied  him,  and  Roger  tried  to  shut 
them  out,  to  bring  back  again  the  walls  to  his  house.  And 
sometimes  he  succeeded,  and  he  was  left  for  a  while  in 
peace  with  Judith  and  his  three  small  girls.  But  despite 
his  efforts  to  keep  them  there,  new  faces  kept  intruding. 
Swiftly  his  small  family  grew,  split  into  other  families, 
and  these  were  merged  with  other  figures  pressing  in 
from  every  side.  Again  he  felt  the  presence  of  countless 
families  all  around,  dividing,  reuniting,  with  ceaseless 
changes  and  fresh  life — a  never  ending  multitude.  Here 
they  were  singing  and  dancing,  and  Laura  gaily  waved 
to  him.  At.  another  place  were  only  men,  and  they  were 

318 


HIS  FAMILY  319 

struggling  savagely  to  clutch  things  from  each  other's 
hands.  A  sea  of  scowling  visages,  angry  shouts,  fists 
clinched  in  air.  And  he  thought  he  saw  Bruce  for  an 
instant.  Behind  them  lay  wide  valleys  obscured  by  heavy 
clouds  of  smoke,  and  he  could  hear  the  roar  of  guns. 
But  they  vanished  suddenly,  and  he  saw  women  mourn 
ing  now,  and  Edith  with  her  children  turned  to  him  her 
anxious  eyes.  He  tried  to  reach  and  help  her,  but  already 
she  had  gone.  And  behind  her  came  huge  bending  forms, 
men  heaving  at  great  burdens,  jaws  set  in  scowls  of  fierce 
revolt.  And  John  was  there  on  his  crutches,  and  near 
him  was  a  figure  bound  into  a  chair  of  steel,  with  terror 
in  the  straining  limbs,  while  in  desperation  Deborah  tried 
to  wrench  him  free.  Abruptly  Roger  turned  away. 

And  in  a  twinkling  all  was  gone,  the  tumult  and  the 
clamor,  and  he  was  in  a  silent  place  high  up  on  a  mountain 
side.  It  was  dusk.  A  herd  of  cattle  passed,  and  George 
came  close  behind  them.  And  around  him  Roger  saw, 
emerging  from  the  semi-dark,  faces  turning  like  his  own 
to  the  summits  of  the  mountains  and  the  billowy  splendors 
there.  It  grew  so  dark  he  could  see  no  more.  There  fell 
a  deep  silence,  not  a  sound  but  the  occasional  chirp  of  a 
bird  or  the  faint  whirr  of  an  insect.  Even  the  glow  on 
the  peaks  was  gone.  Darkness,  only  darkness. 

"Surely  this  is  death,"  he  thought.  After  that  he  was 
alone.  And  presently  from  far  away  he  heard  the  boom 
ing  of  a  bell,  deep  and  slow,  sepulchral,  as  it  measured 
off  his  life.  Another  silence  followed,  and  this  time  it 
was  more  profound;  and  with  a  breathless  awe  he  knew 
that  all  the  people  who  had  ever  lived  on  earth  were  be 
fore  him  in  the  void  to  which  he  himself  was  drifting: 
people  of  all  nations,  of  countless  generations  reaching 
back  and  back  and  back  to  the  beginnings  of  mankind: 
the  mightiest  family  of  all,  that  had  stumbled  up  through 
the  ages,  had  slaved  and  starved  and  dreamed  and  died, 
had  blindly  hated,  blindly  killed,  had  raised  up  gods  and 


320  HIS  FAMILY 

idols  and  yearned  for  everlasting  life,  had  laughed  and 
played  and  danced  along,  had  loved  and  mated,  given 
birth,  had  endlessly  renewed  itself  and  handed  on  its 
heritage,  had  striven  hungrily  to  learn,  had  groped  its 
way  in  darkness,  and  after  all  its  struggles  had  come  now 
barely  to  the  tHwn.  And  then  a  voice  within  him  cried, 

"What  is  humanity  but  a  child?  In  the  name  of  the 
dead  I  salute  the  unborn!" 

Slowly  a  glow  appeared  in  his  dream,  and  once  again 
the  scene  had  changed.  The  light  was  coming  from  long 
rows  of  houses  rising  tall  and  steep  out  of  a  teeming  city 
street.  And  from  these  lighted  houses  children  now  came 
pouring  forth.  They  filled  the  street  from  wall  to  wall 
with  a  torrent  of  warm  vivid  hues,  they  joined  in  mad 
tempestuous  games,  they  shouted  and  they  danced  with 
glee,  they  whirled  each  other  'round  and  'round.  The 
very  air  seemed  quivering.  Then  was  heard  the  crash 
of  a  band,  and  he  saw  them  marching  into  school.  In 
and  in  and  in  they  pressed,  till  the  school  seemed  fairly 
bursting.  Out  they  came  by  another  way,  and  went  off 
marching  down  the  street  with  the  big  flag  waving  at 
their  head.  He  followed  and  saw  the  street  divide  into 
narrower  streets  and  bye-ways,  into  roads  and  country 
lanes.  And  all  were  filled  with  children.  In  endless 
multitudes  they  came — marching,  marching,  spreading, 
spreading,  like  wide  bobbing  fields  of  flowers  rolling  out 
across  the  land,  toward  a  great  round  flashing  sun  above 
a  distant  rim  of  hills. 

The  sun  rose  strangely  dazzling.  It  filled  the  heavens 
with  blinding  light.  He  felt  himself  drawn  up  and  up — 
while  from  somewhere  far  behind  he  heard  the  cry  of  Deb 
orah's  child.  A  clear  sweet  thrill  of  happiness  came. 
And  after  that — we  do  not  know. 

For  he  had  left  his  family. 

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